QUESTS 


CALE  rOUNG  RICE 


•f 


FAR  QUESTS 


FAR  QUESTS 

BY 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 


AUTHOR  OF 

THE  IMMORTAL  LURE,  A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON,  YQLANDA  OF  CYPRUS, 
CHARLES  DI  TOCCA,    DAVID,    MANY  GODS,    NIRVANA  DAYS,  ETC. 


GARDEN  CITY        NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

MCMXII 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING   THAT   OF   TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY  CALE  YOUNG  RICE 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


To 
ANNE  CRAWFORD  FLEXNER 

whose   unfailing   appreciation    and   friendship 
are  here  gratefully  acknowledged. 


273455 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MYSTIC 3 

THE  WIFE  OF  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 7 

STAR  OF  ACHIEVEMENT 1 1 

CLOISTER  LAYS 

1.  BROTHER  GIAN 20 

2.  SISTER  PAULA 23 

LIMITATIONS 27 

HIGHLAND  JOY 29 

To  THE  SPIRIT  OF  NATURE 30 

THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THIBET 33 

HIERANTIS 37 

LA  MORGUE  LITTERAIRE 41 

PHILOSOPHIES 44 

LOVE  BY  TRAETH-Y-DARAN 46 

A  LYDIAN  BACCHANAL 47 

AESCHYLUS 54 

COSMISM 56 

THE  EXCOMMUNICANT 59 

ANDRE  REVINE.  . .                                      62 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  DISILLUSIONED 65 

THE  DESERTER  OF  NIRVANA 67 

WHAT  MORE,  O  SEA 69 

ORIENTAL  MEMORIES 

1.  RAIN  IN  ISE 71 

2.  A  CHINESE  CITY 72 

3.  A  BURMESE  IDOL 73 

4.  IN  CEYLON 74 

5.  NORTH  INDIA 74 

6.  THE  KHAMSIN,  AT  CAIRO 75 

7.  THE  JORDAN  —  AND  JERICHO 75 

A  REQUIEM  FOR  A  MAGDALEN 77 

SNOWDONIAN  HILLS 78 

GULLS  AT  LAND'S  END 81 

To  SHELLEY 82 

THE  APOSTATE 85 

SPES  MYSTICA 87 

MOODS  OF  THE  MOOR 89 

SEA-LURE 91 

BIDDEFORD  BAY 93 

THE  FISHING  OF  O-Susm 95 

A  WOMAN'S  REPLY 97 

WATERS  WITHHELD 98 

FOG 99 

THE  LOST  BEDOUIN.  . .  101 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SONG  OF  A  NEOPHYTE 102 

SAPPHO'S  DEATH  SONG 104 

THE  MASTER 106 

CIVIL  WAR 108 

MESSAGES no 

WHAT  PART 112 

THE  UNKNOWN  SHORE 113 

MAN 114 

HAUNTED  SEAS 115 

CONVICTS "6 

WHO  RESTS  NOT 118 

THE  UNHONOURED 119 

AT  LINCOLN,  ENGLAND 120 

THE  SONG  OF  A  DRUNKEN  PIRATE 122 

BUOYS 123 

To  A  BOASTING  BLUET 1 24 

VOICES  AT  THE  VEIL 125 

To  SEA! 127 

ON  IROQUOIS  HILL 129 

SUFFICINGS I3I 

RECOMPENSE *32 

VANISHINGS 134 

GALILEO J35 

AT  THE  END  . .            139 


FAR   QUESTS 


THE  MYSTIC 

There  is  a  quest  that  calls  me, 

In  nights  when  I  am  lone, 
The  need  to  ride  where  the  ways  divide 

The  Known  from  the  Unknown. 
I  mount  what  thought  is  near  me 

And  soon  I  reach  the  place, 
The  tenuous  rim  where  the  Seen  grown 

And  the  Sightless  hides  its  face. 

/  have  ridden  the  wind, 

I  have  ridden  the  sea, 

I  have  ridden  the  moon  and  stars. 

I  have  set  my  feet  in  the  stirrup  seat 

Of  a  comet  coursing  Mars. 

a 


4  FAR  QUESTS 

And  cverywltere 
Thro  the  earth  and  air 
My  thought  speeds,  lightning-shod, 
It  comes  to  a  place  where  checking  pace 
It  cries,  "Beyond  lies  Godl" 

It  calls  me  out  of  the  darkness, 

It  calls  me  out  of  sleep, 
"Ride!  ride!  for  you  must,  to  the  end  of  Dust!'' 

It  bids  —  and  on  I  sweep 
To  the  wide  outposts  of  Being, 

Where  there  is  Gulf  alone  — 
And  thro  a  Vast  that  was  never  passed 

I  listen  for  Life's  tone. 

I  have  ridden  the  wind, 

I  have  ridden  the  night, 

I  have  ridden  the  ghosts  that  flee 

From  the  vaults  of  death  like  a  chilling  breath 

Over  eternity. 


FAR  QUESTS 
And  everywhere 
Is  the  world  laid  bare  — 
Ether  and  star  and  clod  — 
Until  I  wind  to  its  brink  and  find 
But  the  cry,  "Beyond  lies  Godl" 

It  calls  me  and  ever  calls  me! 

And  vainly  I  reply, 
"  Fools  only  ride  where  the  ways  divide 

What  Is  from  the  Whence  and  Why!" 
I'm  lifted  into  the  saddle 

Of  thoughts  too  strong  to  tame 
And  down  the  deeps  and  over  the  steeps 

I  find    .    .    .    ever  the  Same. 


I  have  ridden  the  wind, 

I  have  ridden  the  stars, 

I  have  ridden  the  force  that  flies 

With  far  intent  thro  the  firmament 

And  each  to  each  allies. 


6  FAR  QUESTS 

And  everywhere 
That  a  thought  may  dare 
To  gallop,  mine  has  trod  - 
Only  to  stand  at  last  on  the  strand 
Where  just  beyond  lies  God. 


THE  WIFE  OF  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

The  wife  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Went  out  into  the  night, 
She  thought  she  heard  a  voice  crying: 

Was  it  to  left  or  right? 


She  went  forth  to  the  Joppa  Gate, 

Three  crosses  hung  on  high, 
The  one  was  a  thief's,  the  other  a  thief's, 

The  third  she  went  not  nigh. 


For  still  she  heard  the  voice  crying: 

Was  it  to  right  or  left? 
Or  was  it  but  a  wind  of  fear 

That  blew  her  on  bereft? 
7 


FAR  QUESTS 

She  went  down  from  the  Joppa  Gate 

Into  the  black  ravine. 
She  climbed  up  by  the  rocky  path 

To  where  a  tree  was  seen. 


And  "What,  sooth,  do  I  follow  here? 

Is  it  my  own  mad  mind? 
Judas!  Judas  Iscariot!" 

She  called  upon  the  wind. 

11  Judas!  Judas  Iscariot!" 

She  crept  beneath  the  tree. 
What  thing  was  it  that  swung  there, 

Hung  so   dolorously? 

'Judas!  Judas  Iscariot!" 
She  touched  it  with  her  hand. 

The  leaves  shivered  above  her  head, 
To  make  her  understand. 


FAR  QUESTS 

"Judas!  Judas!  my  love!  my  lord!" 

Her  hands  went  o'er  it  fast, 
From  foot  to  thigh,  from  thigh  to  throat, 

And  stopped  —  there  —  at  last. 


" Judas!  Judas!  what  has  He  done, 
The  Christ  you  followed  so!" 

More  than  the  silver  left  on  him 
Made  answer  to  her  woe. 


"  Judas  I  Judas!  what  has  He  done! 

O  has  it  come  to  this! 
The  Kingdom  promised  has  but  proved 

For  you  a  soul-abyss! 

"Was  He  the  Christ  and  let  it  be?"     . 

She  cut  him  from  the  limb, 
And  held  him  in  her  arms  there 

And  wept  over  him, 


io  FAR  QUESTS 

"None  in  the  world  shall  ever  know 

Your  doubts  of  Him  but  I! 
'Traitor!  traitor!  and  only  traitor!' 

Will  ever  be  their  cry! 


"None  in  the  world  shall  ever  know 
But  I  who  am  your  wife!" 

She  flung  the  silver  from  his  purse: 
It  made  a  bitter  strife. 


It  rattled  on  the  ringing  rocks 

And  fell  to  the  ravine. 
"Was  He  the  Christ  and  let  it  be?" 

She  moaned,  still,  between. 


She  held  him  in  her  arms  there, 
And  kissed  his  lips  aright, 

The  lips  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Who  hanged  himself  that  night. 


STAR  OF  ACHIEVEMENT 


Star  of  Achievement! 

Star  that  arose  when  man  first  rose  on  the  earth 

And  felt  within  him  the  Upward  Urge  of  Being; 

Star  of  the  ultimate  heaven, 

Greater  than  that  of  Vega  —  the  heaven  of  the  soul; 

Wondrous  is  thy  ascension, 

Wondrous  thy  lifting  up  of  him,  thy  chosen  — 

Of  man,  above  all  creatures! 


ii 


The  earth  was  green  wnen  he  came, 

The  earth  with  its  myriad-teeming  mountains  and 

valleys, 

ii 


is  FAR  QUESTS 

The  earth  with  its  veiling  shading  clouds  and  breezes, 
The  earth  that  brought  to  birth  all  seas  and 
continents. 

The  elder  slime  had  conceived,  preparing  his  way. 
Its  womb  impregnate  with  the  command  of  the 

Infinite 

Strove  to  give  birth  to  a  form 
In  whose  high-spacious  spirit  thou  shouldst  appear. 
But  the  travails  of  it  were  vain. 

For  not  in  the  winged  thing,  nor  the  saurian, 
Nor  leviathan  lashing  the  sea, 
Nor  the  mastodon  shaking  the  land, 
O  Star,  thy  light  awoke  — 
But  mystically  in  man! 


m 


And  dim  was  thy  beam,  0  dim,  primevally! 
By  it  man  hoped  no  more  at  first  than  to  seize 


FAR  QUESTS  13 

And  hold  a  rude  cave  in  the  forest, 

To  shape  with  a  stone  a  stone  for  his  protection, 

To  clothe  him  with  a  wild  skin  and  watch  with 

wonder 

The  magic  of  river  and  tree  and  melting  mist, 
Of  springing  storms  that  died  in  dens  of  thunder, 
Of  dreaded  lightning  tongues  that  spat  destruction. 
Dim  was  thy  light,  a  will-o'-the-wisp  that  flitted 
On  dreams  and  vague  desires. 

Yet  in  his  need  he  sought  to  see  thee  clearer. 

Savage  he  was,  but,  in  the  sky  of  his  soul, 

Wast  thou,  a  whisperer  of  aspirations, 

From  age  to  age  leading  him, 

With  a  little  gain  upward: 

From  the  cave  to  the  hut,  his  first  home  upon  earth, 

From  enmity  with  all  beasts  to  toil  with  some. 

Savage  he  was,  yet  in  his  vast  soul-dark 

He  was  not  all  forsaken, 

Not  left  alone  in  the  wilderness  of  Nature 


i4  FAR  QUESTS 

With  naught  of  hope  to  lead  his  look  above  it, 

With  naught  to  bid  him  master  it. 

For  Star,  O  Star,  it  was  thy  light  he  found 

In  all,  as  in  the  hard  flint  imprisoned  fire, 

His  fervid  friend  thro  all  the  cycles  since. 


IV 


For  time  sped  on  — 

Unmeasured  but  by  thee,  O  beauteous  Star, 

But  by  thy  inspiration  to  his  soul. 

Thy  seeds  of  light  quickened  in  him  to  knowledge, 

And  knowledge  grew  to  dream  and  dream  to  power. 

Speech  did  he  learn  from  thy  bright  whisperings, 

And  with  it  moulded  winds 

And  the  rhythm  of  wild  waters  into  Song, 

That  grew  too  precious  to  trust  utterly 

To  lips  that  perished, 

So  thou,  O  Star,  put  in  his  hand  the  stylus, 

And  lo,  ravisht,  he  wrote! 


FAR  QUESTS  15 


But  death  was  ever  with  him! 

O     .     .     .     !    death!    .     .     . 

A  little  while  he  counted  suns  and  moons, 

A  little  while  he  slipped  amid  the  seasons, 

A  little  while  he  gazed  upon  thy  glow  — • 

And  then  was  gone! 

Whither,  0  Star? 

Thy  answer  was,  Into  the  invisible, 
Into  the  land  of  spirits. 

And  not  since  thy  first  beam,  O  Soul-uplifter, 
Had  any  fallen  on  him  like  to  this, 
For  from  it  was  born  worship,  from  it  the  gods. 
In  the  Unseen  they  rose, 

In  the  place  where  flesh  is  not,  nor  dust  that  dieth, 
But  only  the  powers  that  make  all  things  to  be. 
Only  the  might  that  heaved  the  breasts  of  the 
mountains  — 


16  FAR  QUESTS 

To  the  lips  of  the  clouds  heaved  them; 

Only  the  breath  that  breathed  the  continents, 

Out  of  the  sea  breathed  them; 

Only  the  pulse  that  turns  the  tide  forever. 

Yea,  yea,  the  gods  were  born! 

And  temples  towering,  O  Star,  and  cities, 

That  sprung  out  of  man's  vision  at  thy  voice. 

A  word  of  light  from  thee  touching  the  desert 
Brought  the  rose,  Babylon,  to  sudden  bloom, 
Or  Memphian  fanes  that  floated  in  the  Nile. 
Nor  could  war,  famine,  and  sin,  and  pestilence, 
And  cataclysmic  fate's  miasma  quench  thee. 
Thro  them  thou  wast,  O  Shiner  on  the  spirit! 
Thro  them  thou  wast  — 
Drawing  men's  eyes  toward  thee 
As  the  needle  is  drawn  to  the  changeless  Light  of 

the  North. 

By  thee  he  sailed  the  centuries, 
Forgetful  oft  and  breaking  oft  upon  shoals, 


FAR  QUESTS  17 

On  granite  laws  and  tyrannies, 
On  many  a  reef  of  folly, 
On  many  a  seeming  harbour  set  with  ruin  — 
But  making  many  a  haven  safe  at  last! 


VI 


Yea,  as  the  nations  know! 

The  nations  who  send  up  their  praise  to  thee, 

Hymning  a  hundred  chartings  he  has  made! 

India  cries,  "To  Meditation's  Port, 

O  Star,  he  came  by  thee  and  found  the  Infinite." 

And  Egypt  older  yet  upon  the  seas, 

"I  launched  him  first  on  the  known  tide  of  time."' 

Greece  chants,  "I  gave  him  beauty  for  the  world!  " 

And  the  Christ-land,  "To  Beauty  I  brought  Love!" 

While  Rome  whose  voyage  led  from  Port  to  Port 

Gathered  all  praise  of  thee, 

And  echoed  it  from  Albion  to  the  Elbe, 

And  southward  by  Hispania  to  the  Straits, 

Thro  which  at  length  it  leapt  the  loth  Atlantic, 


i8  FAR  QUESTS 

The  Vast,  the  Unsailed, 

Like  luring  music, 

Before  the  bows  of  mightiest  mariners, 

And  lo,  and  lo,  the  rounded  earth  was  one! 

vn 

And  men,  O  fair  Effulgence, 

Men  too  were  one! 

Bound  consciously  at  last  by  the  deep  rays, 

By  thy  divine  deep  rays  of  brotherhood! 

With  hands  locked  fast  around  their  little  planet 

Which  they  had  learned  was  not  alone  God's  care 

Locked  fast  by  fear  and  awe, 

Or  by  the  gentler  bonds  of  hope  and  pity, 

They  saw,  thro  thy  revealings, 

That  earth  fares  in  an  infinitesimal  round 

Mid  infinite  sun-spaces, 

And  that  upon  their  littleness  and  briefness 

And  universal  fate  hangs  fraternity. 


FAR  QUESTS  19 

So  close  they  throng  together,  closer,  0  Star, 
With  every  shedding  of  thy  radiance 
Thro  new  soul-firmaments  of  vaster  range. 
For  tho  they  are  finite  sparks 
For  ever  and  ever  blown,  toward  infinite  Dark, 
By  the  breath  of  Life  — 
And  lonely  save  for  hope  of  a  Rekindling, 
Or  for  each  other's  light  along  the  way, 
They  trust  in  thee,  O  Star,  Star  of  Achievement, 
Trust  thy  ascension  — 
Shining  sure  ascension, 

Thro  nebulous  realms  that  seem  unknowable  — 
Toward  constellated  Love  and  Truth  and  Freedom! 
Toward  zenithed  Joy! 
Toward  life's  Intent,  in  the  central  heaven  of  all! 


CLOISTER  LAYS 

i 

BROTHER  GIAN 

(Of  the  Benedictines  at  Monte  Cassino) 
Circa  1080 

Dear  Jesus  Christ,  I'm  Brother  Gian. 

Within  my  cell  I  sit  and  scratch 
From  pagan  parchments  words  writ  on 

Such  vellum  as  not  kings  can  match. 
Words,  Greek  and  Latin  —  all  profane. 

Three  Homers  I  have  quite  erased 

And  look  to  see  their  lies  replaced 
By  lives  of  Saints  without  a  stain. 

20 


FAR  QUESTS  ai 

This  Virgil  now:  I'll  do  it  next. 

Last  night  it  tempted  me  to  peep 
A  moment  at  its  wicked  text, 

Telling  of  nymphs    ...     I  could  not  sleep. 
Dear  Jesus  Christ,  I  dreamt  I  was 

A  faun  within  a  Bacchic  rout, 

And  one  white  creature  chose  me  out: 
I  broke  with  kisses  all  Thy  laws. 

Here  is  the  place     ...    I  danced  as  wild 

As  any  bacchant  of  them  all, 
With  ivy-woven  tresses  whiled 

Mad  hours  that  maddened  at  her  call. 
She  led  me  far  into  the  wood 

Where  not  a  Pan  or  Satyr  leapt. 

Dear  Jesus  Christ,  'twas  Satan  swept 
Me  on  —  I  scarcely  understood. 

Here  is  the  place.     .     .     .     For  in  my  dream 
Each  letter  trembled  and  became 


a*  FAR  QUESTS 

A  nymph:  the  parchment  was  a  stream 

Of  shapes  that  glimmered  without  shame. 
I  danced  and  followed  where  she  fled 

With  lips  wine-glad  bent  back  to  shout. 

Dear  Jesus  Christ,  beyond  a  doubt 
She  rose  where  " Venus"  here  I  read. 

So  first  of  all  I  raze  its  shame! 

And  pray  that  in  its  place  may  stand 
Some  letter  of  the  Virgin's  name 

Writ  by  a  pure  and  holy  hand, 
And  set  about  with  red  and  gold 

And  lilies  —  where  my  eyes  still  see 

But  glimmering  limbs  that  tempt  and  flee, 
But  shimmering  arms  that  would  enfold. 

Dear  Jesus  Christ,  this  I  confess, 

And  fasting  will  I  toil  until 
The  vellum,  white  as  holiness, 

Shall  be  fit  for  an  angel's  quill! 


FAR  QUESTS  23 

An  angel  like  the  nymph  with  eyes 

And  body  that     .     .     .     Dear  Jesus  Christ, 

To  woman  was  man  sacrificed! 
From  Eve  his  sins  forever  rise! 

II 

SISTER  PAULA 

(Of  the  Benedictine  Nuns) 

I  will  not  shun  to  touch  the  poor, 

Tho  loathsome  be  their  bruises, 
Nor  fail  to  toil,  O  Virgin  Pure, 

On  garments  for  their  uses. 
The  sacramental  bell  I'll  tend 

Unceasing,  soon  or  late, 
But  O,  upon  thy  image  there, 
That  clasps  the  Babe  unto  it,  fair, 

I  pray,  bid  me  not  wait! 

The  holy  water  I  will  fetch 

From  Rome,  afaint  and  fasting; 


24  FAR  QUESTS 

On  the  cold  chapel-stones  I'll  stretch 

Long  nights  without  repasting. 
Sackcloth  I'll  bind  about  my  waist, 

Nor  ever  will  I  rest, 
But,  Virgin  Mother,  let  it  be 
That  I  need  not  look  up  and  see 

The  child  there  on  thy  breast! 

For  seeing  it  I  can  but  sin, 

I,  ne'er  to  be  a  mother, 
And  think  of  love  that  might  have  been, 

And  of  one,  now  Christ's  brother, 
Who  tosses  in  his  convent  cell 

On  billows  of  desire, 
While  toiling  hours  strike  on  his  dreams 
Stern  blows  of  penitence  that  seems 

To  shatter  them  with  fire! 

I  can  but  sin  —  and  cast  away 
All  love  that  is  not  human, 


FAR  QUESTS  25 

That  has  not  mystic  joy  to  sway 

True-mated  man  and  woman! 
That  does  not  spring  and  fill  the  world 

With  children  and  with  song; 
With  passion,  in  the  summer  night, 
Upon  young  lips  bliss  hallows  quite, 

Heart-bliss  that  is  so  strong! 

I  can  but  sin  —  the  while  this  veil 

I  wear  seems  but  to  strangle; 
The  while  all  vows  I  follow  fail, 

Vows  made  but  to  entangle! 
The  while  laud,  vesper  and  compline 

Sound  to  my  childlessness 
Like  chants  the  hapless  heathen  pour 
On  altars  of  false  gods  —  no  more! 

Such  is  my  wickedness! 

Therefore,  O  Virgin,  set  my  hands 
To  tasks  however  lowly, 


26  FAR  QUESTS 

To  penance  only  cloister-bands 
Of  Magdalens  pay  slowly! 

Let  me  be  less  within  thy  sight 
Than  Heaven's  lowest  heir, 

But  place  me  not  where  I  must  brood 

On  the  lost  bliss  of  motherhood  — 
Before  thy  image  there! 


LIMITATIONS 

(Art  and  the  Man) 

I  am  savage  for  life  and  the  lusts 
Of  beckoning  quests  I  have  banished, 
I  am  glutted  with  Beauty's  face 

And  the  brush  that  I  paint  her  with, 
I  am  sick  of  the  dreams  and  dusts 
Of  the  soul  of  me  —  of  the  vanished 
Years  that  I  spent  in  chase 
Of  the  luring  lips  of  Myth. 

I  was  suckled  for  more  than  to  fling 
The  blood  of  my  heart  on  a  palette. 
I  was  given  the  eye  of  a  god 

For  more  than  a  picture's  worth. 
27 


28  FAR  QUESTS 

I  have  felt  the  ineffable  sting 
Of  Life  —  tho  I  be  Art's  valet. 
I  have  painted  the  cloud  —  or  the  clod, 
Who  should  have  possessed  the  earth. 

The  Caesar  in  me,  and  the  Christ 
Cry  out  to  be  given  power. 
The  Antony  in  my  veins 

Would  waste  a  world's  throne  for  his  queen. 
And  what  to  Ulysses  sufficed  — 
The  infinite  far  foam-flower!  — 
That  only  would  quench  the  quest 
Of  my  soul  for  worlds  unseen. 

The  law  of  it,  God,  do  I  hate, 
That  a  man  with  the  might  of  many 
Must  hold  to  the  task  of  one  — 

In  the  groove  of  an  ancient  awe; 
Or  find,  if  his  will,  o'er  great, 
Denies  to  be  bound  by  any, 
The  body  of  him  shall  break,  undone, 
And  Fate  appear  in  the  flaw. 


HIGHLAND  JOY 

(Wales) 

The  blue-bells  ring  in  the  bracken, 
The  heather  bells  on  the  hill, 

The  gorse  is  yellow 

The  sunlight  mellow 
With  music  of  wind  and  rill! 

Afar  the  mountains  are  rising 
High  Snowdon  and  all  his  knights, 
For  some  fair  tourney 
With  clouds  that  journey 
Up  from  the  sea's  blue  bights! 

O  winds,  O  waters,  O  mountains, 
O  earth  with  your  singing  sod, 

I'm  glad  of  the  weather 

That  brings  together 
My  heart  and  the  heart  of  God! 
29 


TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  NATURE 

A  myriad  years  you  have  led  us 

In  adoration  on 
To  worship  of  wind  and  water, 

Wood,  star  and  winged  down. 
A  myriad  years  you  have  held  us 

In  an  ecstasy  of  trust, 
But  never  a  thing  have  told  us 

Of  the  meaning  of  life's  lust. 

Your  suns  and  your  moons  and  seasons 

We  have  hallowed  with  our  praise, 
With  a  passion  like  a  lover's 

We  have  clasped  your  nights  and  days. 
In  solitudes  we  have  trysted 

And  in  silence,  yearning  long, 
And  singing,  in  sooth,  it  taught  us, 

But  not  the  meaning  of  song. 
30 


FAR  QUESTS  31 

Your  flowers  we  know  and  name  them 

With  breaths  of  beauty  o'er, 
Your  leaves  and  their  million  lispings 

We  have  treasured  more  and  more. 
Your  clouds  we  have  followed  farther 

Than  fancy  follows  thought, 
And  many  a  gleam  have  gathered, 

But  not  the  gleam  we  sought. 

The  sea  and  its  soul  of  power 

Has  had  of  our  hearts  full  awe 
And  love;  tho  we  know  what  tribute 

Has  fed  its  mystic  maw. 
Brave  litanies  we  have  lipped  it, 

Brave  prayers  have  we  paid, 
But  infinite  is  its  answer  — 

And  of  that  we  are  afraid! 

And  yet  with  joy  for  the  jungle, 

With  wonder  for  the  wild, 
Your  lure  and  delight  have  led  us 

As  the  rainbow  leads  the  child. 


32  FAR  QUESTS 

Your  deserts  burning  and  dewless 
Have  given  our  spirits  drink, 

But  whence  it  has  come  we  know  not, 
From  what  Elysian  brink. 

Nor  why,  on  heights  of  the  mountain, 

In  chasms  of  earth's  crust, 
We  feel  forever  the  Presence 

That  is  not  framed  of  dust; 
That  is  not  born  of  the  atoms, 

Nor  by  the  ether  bound; 
That  seeks  forever  to  find  us, 

Yet  never  can  be  found. 

So  come  but  a  little  nearer  — 

Or  farther  breathe  away. 
Be  more  to  us  than  a  Presence 

That  says  nor  yea  nor  nay. 
Between  the  seen  and  the  shadowed 

Stand  not  so  strangely  dumb, 
Yet  if  you  must,  still  let  us  trust 

The  Word  at  last  shall  come. 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF   THIBET 

Down  the  road  to  Llasa, 
Himalayan  and  strange, 
I  thought  I  saw  them  winding 

From   range   to   lower   range, 
The  seekers  after  Buddha, 
Across  the  ice  and  cold, 
And  from  their  lips  the  mystic  phrase 
Of  merit  ever  tolled: 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
Life  is  but  a  way  of  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 

Clothed   in   rags   and   turquoise 

And  necklaces   of   skulls, 
And  shoes  of  yak  worn  furless, 

And  fleece  the  shepherd  culls, 
33 


34  FAR  QUESTS 

With  faces  like  to  parchments 

Whereon   alone  was  writ 
The  repetition  of  those  words 
Of  wonder  infinite: 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
Life  is  but  a  robe  of  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 

Down  the  road  ascetic 

And  desert,  bleak  and  drear, 
I  thought  I  saw  them  winding 
To  Llasa  walls  more  near; 
Strong  man  and  maid  and  mother, 

Shorn  youth  and  sexless  age, 
That  ever  to  the  wind  intoned 
Their  one  acquitting  page: 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
Grief  is  but  the  goal  of  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 


FAR  QUESTS  35 

Past  the  hermit's  cavern  — 

Where  he  alone  drew  breath!  — 
Past   nunneries  where  silence 

Waits,   acolyte   of   death; 
Past  shrines  of  lesser  power, 

Where  smiling  idols  wear 
The  bliss  upon  their  gilded  lips 
Of  the  all-granting  prayer. 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
Leave  the  life  of  flesh  and  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 

Down  the  road  —  and  down  it, 

I   saw  them,   lama-led, 
Mid  holy  lakes  and  mountains, 

And  monasteries  fed 
With  endless   alms  —  and  measured 

By    slow    prostrations    round, 
And  by  the  chanted  syllables 

That  sprung  as  from  the  ground. 


36  FAR  QUESTS 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
Life  is  but  the  lair  of  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 

Then  at  last  to  Llasa 

They  reach  —  I  see  them  yet!  — 
And  touch  the  gods  on  altars 

Above  all  others  set. 
Monk,  man  and  maid  and  mother, 

Upon  the  Wheel  of  Things, 
From  which  escape  shall  come  alone 
To  him  who  ceaseless  sings: 

'Om  mane  padme,  hum!' 
End  the  life  of  greed  and  lust. 
Turn  the  wheel  and  beat  the  drum, 
Till  we  to  Nirvana  come. 


HIERANTIS 

(The  First  to  see  the  One  God) 
B.  C- 

I  went  out  and  lay  down  on  the  earth. 

Dawn  was  not,  but  the  sea  and  the  sky 
Held  an  auspice,  as  dimly  my  soul 

Held  a  vision  I  strained  to  descry. 
Held  a  vision  that  hung  below  birth 

In  my  brain,  as  the  sun  in  his  stole 
Of  imagined  and  infinite  light 
Was  yet  hung  in  the  deeps  of  the  night. 

I  went  out  and  lay  down  on  the  breast 
Of  the  mountain;  I  clasped  it  and  cried, 

"Let  me  see  what  is  from  me  withheld! 
For  the  gods  I  am  fain  to  deride! 
37 


38  FAR  QUESTS 

All  the  temples  and  groves  that  are  drest 

In  the  dream  of  the  Spring  have  enspelled 
Me  to  reverence,  but  to  no  trust: 
Is  all  lifting  of  prayers  but  a  lust?" 

For  I  knew  that  men  worshipped  the  sun 
And  the  moon  and  the  might  of  the  stars; 

That  on  earth  were  peoples  who  made 
Of  all  things,  quick  or  dead,  avatars; 

Of  the  tree,  of  the  rivers  that  run 

From  a  source  beyond  sight;  seeking  aid 

Of  the  wind,  or  beseeching  the  seas 

That  no  sacrifice  e'er  can  appease. 

O  I  knew,  and  was  so  at  despair 
Of  all  altars,  all  incense  and  praise! 

"There  is  fortune,"  I  said,  " there  is  fate, 
But  they  fall  in  a  myriad  ways. 

To  no  god  of  one  way  will  I  bare 
And  abase  me  —  his  rending  await: 


FAR  QUESTS  39 

Little  gods  are  no  gods;  give  me  one 
In  whose  hands  are  all  things  that  are  done!" 

Then  I  saw!  on  the  soul  of  me  burst 
Light  unbreathable,   for  I  beheld 

How  a  thought,  that  to  man  was  before 
Never  sent,  could  all  Mystery  weld! 

" There  is  One,  there  is  One  God!  the  First 
And  the  Last,"  did  I  triumph,  ''No  more! 

And  his  throne  is  the  Atom,  the  Star, 

Is  all  things  that  have  been  and  that  are! 

"  He  is  god  of  the  East  and  the  West, 
He  is  God  of  the  Night  and  the  Known, 

He  is  Sun,  he  is  Storm,  he  is  Shade, 
He  is  Strife,  he  is  Dust  that  is  strewn! 

He  is  Star,  he  is  Foam  on  the  Crest 
Of  the  Wave,  he  is  Wind  that  is  stayed; 

He  is  what  shall  live  Ever,  or  Die, 

He  is  Pity  and  Hope  — he  is  I!" 


40  FAR  QUESTS 

Like  delirium  thro  me  it  ran, 

Like  divinity,  for  in  a  flash 
Was  the  universe  mine,  I  had  torn 

The  last  veil  —  O  immortally  rash ! 
It  was  mine!  all  the  vast  Caravan 

Of  its  Being  from  bourne  unto  bourne: 
For  the  vision  that  swept  me,  a  clod, 
Was  His  vision,  was  He  —  the  One  God! 

I  arose:  the  sun  stood  like  a  priest 
In  ineffable  gladness  of  gold 

To  embrace  me,  a  proselyte,  who 

Had  heard  all  that  to  heart  can  be  told. 

I  outreached  him  my  arms,  I  the  least 
Yet  the  greatest  that  dawn  ever  knew, 

Then  went  down,  with  what  rapturous  ken, 

To  tell  all  to  the  children  of  men. 


LA  MORGUE  LITTERAIRE 

A  house  for  all  dead  books 
Beside  Oblivion's  River 
I  saw  the  lone  ghosts  build 
With  hands  Plutonian. 
Its  walls  were  wan  and  chilled, 
And  only  Time's  faint  shiver 
Ran  thro  it,  not  the  blessed  breath  of  Pan. 

They  built  it   at  the  foot 
Of  hoary  Charon's  ferry. 
Its  gate  upon  the  tide 
Stood  like  a  mouth  of  fate. 
And  often  to  its  side, 
Mid  souls  death  could  not  bury, 
He  brought  within  his  boat  the  futile  freight. 
41 


42  FAR  QUESTS 

Grave    History;    or    Song 

That  had  no  mighty  pinions, 

So  dropped  again  to  earth, 

And  under  earth,  to  him. 

Tales  that  no  Muse  gave  birt 

Within    her   fair    dominions 
He  wafted  o'er  and  ranged  within  it  dim. 

And  soon  unto  its  gate 
From  out  the  fines  Lethean 
Came  many  a  phantom  form 
On  foot  that  hung  with  dread  — 
Came  lips  that  once  were  warm 
And  eyes  despair  made  peon 
When  they  beheld  amid  dead  tomes  their  dead. 

And  some  their  hands  would  wring  — 
A  usage  of  old  sorrow 
They  had  forgotten  long 
In    that    Tartarean    vale. 


FAR  QUESTS  43 

And  some  amid  the  throng 
In  vain  would  strive  to  borrow 
From  memory  a  might  to  voice  their  wail. 

But  many  merely  gazed 
And  went  away  forgetting 
To  watch  with  listless  tread 
Old  Charon  flit  and  fare. 
For  these  found  not  their  dead 
And   knew    that   life   was   letting 
Them  still  a  little  bide  —  but  did  not  care. 

A  house  for  all  dead  books 
Beside    Oblivion's    River, 
Built  by  the  barren  shades: 
Alas  who  shall  not  find, 
Brought  to  him  by  the  raids 
Of  Time,  all  breath's  outliver, 
What  he  had  held  immortal  for  men's  mind. 


PHILOSOPHIES 

Dead  old  Earth,  still  wrapt  in  russet, 

Not  a  sprig  of  Spring? 
Not  a  bird  yet  to  discuss  it, 

From  the  South  a-wing? 
What  if  buds  should  never  burgeon 

On  your  breast  again? 
Would  it  mean  God,  like  a  surgeon, 

Cuts  you  from  his  ken? 

Cuts  you  from  his  cosmic  Being, 

Sets  you  free  of  life? 
Free  of  His  deep  overseeing, 

Of  His  upward  strife? 
Are  there  in  the  great  space  yonder 

Millions  so  set  free? 
Dead  worlds  that  o'er  dead  ways  wander, 

With  no  destiny? 

44 


FAR  QUESTS  45 

Fie  on  fancies  so  unfruitful! 

Hear  that  robin  fling 
Laughter  at  me  with  his  fluteful 

Messages  of  Spring. 
Laughter  which  is  Earth's  and  Heaven's 

Best  philosophy! 
Which,  divinely  ever,  leavens 

Life  with  sanity! 


LOVE  BY  TRAETH-Y-DARAN 

(Wales) 

At  Traeth-y-daran  the  laver-weed  grows, 
So  take  thy  creel,  O  Madlen  mine, 
We'll  gather  it  full  ere  the  moon's  a-shine 
And  bear  it  home  from  the  dripping  brine. 

At   Traeth-y-daran   the   laver-weed   grows: 
We'll  cook  it  over  the  red  culm-fire. 
And  I  will  tell  thee  my  heart's  desire, 
And  thou  shalt  tell  me  thine. 

At   Traeth-y-daran   the   laver-weed   grows. 
Thy  creel,  my  lass!  to  the  cliff  we'll  hie 
And  seek  in  the  clefts  where  the  gulls  go  by 
Like  dreams  of  love  in  a  blue,  blue  eye. 
At  Traeth-y-daran  the  laver-weed  grows  — 
And  there  each  wind  that  above  it  blows 
Shall  teach  me  to  keep  in  thy  cheek  the  rose 
Till  the  last  sun  o'er  me  die. 
46 


A  LYDIAN  BACCHANAL 

The  stag  was  gone 

And  the  hounds  that  follow; 

The  glade   was   still, 

Not  a  stir  around. 

Not  a  doe  or  fawn 

That  had  failed  to   follow, 

With   keenest   fear 

Could  have  sensed  a  sound. 

And  yet  on  the  hill 

There  was  something  hid; 

In  the  coppice  near 

Was  a  presence  felt, 

Of  eyes  and  feet 

47 


48  FAR  QUESTS 

That  were  full  of  thrill, 
Of  limbs  a-quiver 
To  leap  and  bound. 

Then  sudden  the  leaves 
Of  a  laurel  stirred, 
The  branches  parted 
And  eyes  peered  out, 
With  bacchic  stealth 
Of  glance  that  started, 
Then  vanisht  as  if 
Pan-hoofs  were  heard. 
But  not  a  hoof 
From  the  bushes  broke; 
Not  a  wild-hearted 
Pipe  poured  health 
And  happy  lust 
Thro  the  deep  vine- woof, 
Hung  from  the  trees 
By  the  dryad  folk. 


FAR  QUESTS  49 

None:  till,  again, 
The  eyes!  between 
Leafy  fillets 
Of  parted  green. 
And  then,  with  lips 
Of  fear  unpursed, 
Out  with  a  cry 
The  bacchante  burst! 
Out  with  a  cry 
To  the  hills  about: 
Out  with  a  cry 
To  the  bacchant  hid! 
Out  with  her  cry 
For  the  reel  and  rout  — 
The  amorous  pipe 
And  the  thyrsus-thrid! 

And  swiftly  he  came, 
On  foot  as  light 
As  ever  the  vine-god 
Wove  in  dance! 


50  FAR  QUESTS 

Swiftly  he  came 
With  eyes  as  bright 
As  ever  the  wine-god 
Taught  to  glance! 
Swiftly  he  came 
With  fawn-skin  tossed 
Over  his  shoulder, 
Ivy-crowned! 
Myrtle  and  thyme 
And  reed  he  crossed, 
Seized  her  and  whirled  her 
Glorying  round! 

O  the  dance! 
Thro  the  heart  of  Spring! 
Bacchus!  Bacchus! 
God  of  the  grape!  — 
The  reeling  trance 
And  the  rapture-fling 
Of  naked  limbs  — 
The  ravishing! 


FAR  QUESTS  51 

O  the  dance! 
In  the  deeps  of  May! 
Bacchus,  behold 
What  here  is  loosed! 
What  mystery, 
What  passion-sway, 
What  deity 
By  thee  induced! 

But  hist!  the  call 
Of  their  comrade-band! 
They  pause,  panting, 
And  parted  listen. 
The  flame  of  love 
In  their  hearts  is  fanned 
To  mad  desire, 
Their  eyes  glisten. 
They  whisper  a  tryst 
In  the  deeper  wood 
At  night  —  night  — 
When  the  stars  cover! 


FAR  QUESTS 
For  what  is  good  — 
What  is  divine  — 
But  the  clasp  of  lover 
Unto  lover! 

A  tryst:  then  lo, 

Lo,  they  have  kissed. 

Then  she  is  gone, 

And  he,  fleetly. 

Behind  is  left 

In  the  limpid  glade 

A  stir  of  bliss 

That  has  been  completely. 

The  silence  sings 

Of  the  dance  but  hushed; 

The  trodden  thyme 

And  the  crocus,  bleeding, 

Seem  not  to  care, 

But,  torn  and  crushed, 

Remember  only 

The  wild  pipe's  pleading! 


FAR  QUESTS  53 

Bacchus!  Bacchus! 
This  was  your  way! 
Close  to  the  seasons, 
Close  to  the  sod! 
Close  to  the  welling 
Of  all  reasons 
For  our  delight,   0  godl 


AESCHYLUS 

Ha!  and  did  you,  people  of  Greece, 
Praise  the  warrior,  not  the  poet? 
" Bravely  at  Marathon  he  fought" — 
That  alone  on  his  tomb  ye  wrought? 
Courage?  why  it  is  common  stuff, 
Fire  of  the  flesh  —  a  million  know  it! 
And  did  he 
With  the  eye  to  see 
Prometheus  master  destiny  — 
Did  he  count  it  enough? 

Raze  the  tablet  and  write  again, 
You  by  the  Styx,  who  one  time  heard 
Orestes    rave    with    immortal    word, 
And  (Edipus  rock  your  hearts  with  pain. 
54 


FAR  QUESTS  55 

Write:  The  fire  of  his  flesh  burnt  true, 

But  out  of  Olympian  skies  he  drew 

A  flame   to   kindle 

The  mighty  fame 

Of  Greece  wherever  a  tongue  shall  name 

High  Tragedy  —  that  first  he  came 

Immortally  to  woo! 


COSMISM 

The  sea  asleep  like  a  dreamer  sighs; 

The  salt  rock-pools  lie  still  in  the  sun, 
Except  for  the  sidling  crab  that  creeps 

Thro  the  moveless  mosses  green  and  dun. 
The  small  gray  snail  clings  everywhere, 

For  the  tide  is  out;  and  the  sea- weed  dries 
Its  tangled  tresses  in  the  warm  air, 

That  seems  to  ooze  from  the  far  blue  skies, 

Where  not  a  white  gull  on  white  wing  flies. 

The  mollusc  gleams  like  a  gem  amid 

The  scurf  and  the  clustered  green  sea-grapes, 
Whose  trellis  is  but  the  rock's  bare  side, 

Whose  husbandman  but  the  tide  that  drapes. 
56 


FAR  QUESTS  57 

The  little  sandpiper  tilts  and  picks 

His  food,  on  the  wet  sea-marges  hid, 
Till  sudden  a  wave  comes  in  and  flicks 

Him  off,  then  flashes  away  to  bid 

Another  frighten  him  —  as  it  did. 

0  sweet  is  the  world  of  living  things, 

And  sweet  are  the  mingled  sea  and  shore ! 
It  seems  as  if  I  never  again 

Shall  find  life  ill  —  as  oft  before. 
As  if  my  days  should  come  as  the  clouds 

Come  yonder  —  and  vanish  without  wings; 
As  if  all  sorrow  that  ever  shrouds 

My  soul  and  darkly  about  it  clings 

Had  lost  forever  its  ravenings. 

As  if  I  knew  with  a  deeper  sense 

That  good  alone  is  ultimate; 
That  never  an  evil  wrought  of  God 

Or  man  came  truly  out  of  hate. 


58  FAR  QUESTS 

That  Better  springs  from  the  heart  of  Worse, 
As  calm  from  the  heaving  elements; 

That  all  things  born  to  the  Universe 
May  suffer  and  perish  utterly  hence, 
But  never  refute  its  Innocence. 


THE  EXCOMMUNICANT 

(In  the  time  of  Pope  Sixtus  V) 

Praise  be,  praise  be,  to  printers  all! 

Old  Sixtus  on  his  throne 
Would  damn  my  soul  to  Hell  with  a  Bull 

And  now  he  has  damned  his  own! 

"I'll  have  the  Vulgate  set,"  said  he, 

"In  type  beyond  reproof; 
Without  a  wicked  error  —  made 

Tho  it  be  by  the  Devil's  hoof! 

"It  shall  surpass  in  dot  and  jot 

All  ink  has  ever  etched, 
For  every  holy  sheet  of  it 

Shall  'fore  my  eye  be  fetched. 
59 


6o  FAR  QUESTS 

"And,  in  a  preface  black  and  clear, 

I'll  excommunicate 

All  who  shall  dare  to  change  the  text 
But  a  tittle,  by  God's  hate!" 


So  straight  he  put  his  toads  to  it, 
His  Gregory,  Pius,  Paul, 

And  not  with  a  pint  of  Asti  let 
Them  wet  their  wits  withal! 


Each  new  white  sheet  he  conned  himself 

With  care  "infallible," 
Then  bound  them  up  —  to  find  them  foul 

With  errors,  frowsy  full! 

And  all  the  world  of  heretics 
Is  tittering  now  —  from  Thun 

To  Tiber,  from  the  Thames  to  where 
The  Turk  swears  by  Haroun! 


FAR  QUESTS  6r 

"Papal  Infallibility  has  damned 

The  Pope  himself,"  they  gloat, 
"For  he  must  paste  the  errors  o'er 

And  be  his  own  scapegoat !" 


Old  Sixtus  Fifth,  who  from  his  throne 
Would  damn  my  soul  to  Hell, 

Shall  lick  the  Devil's  presses  there 
And  print  blasphemies  well! 


ANDRE  REVINE 

"So  let  it  be," 

You  say,  and  cease, 
And  sit  there  with  seraphic  mien, 

Knowing  the  rage 

You  rouse  in  me 
Is  fraught  with  fate,  Andre  Ravine! 

Yet  as  the  gulf 

Between  us  grows, 
Perfection  lives  upon  your  lips, 

While  mine  are  flames 

That  burn  and  tear 
The  ties  that  wedded  us  to  strips. 
62 


FAR  QUESTS  63 

And,  did  we  part, 

The  world  would  say, 
"We  know  which  of  the  twain  was  true 

To  tortured  Love." 

The  world  would  say, 
Andre  Revine,  that  it  was  you. 

For  am  I  not 

Unhappy  born, 
A  magnet  to  all  floating  fates? 

And  is  it  not 

Unhappiness 
The  world  ever  suspects  and  hates? 

And  are  not  you 

A  thing  so  bright 
That  shadow  cannot  o'er  you  fall? 

A  thing  so  glad 

That  guilt,  if  flung, 
Would  but  upon  me  fix  its  pall? 


64  FAR  QUESTS 

You  answer  not, 
Andre  Revine, 

But  all-enduring  sit  and  sigh. 
And  yet  I  see 
That  triumph  springs 

In  you  at  my  defeated  cry. 

"So  let  it  be," 

Then  say  I  too; 
But  this  I  hold  the  better  part: 

To  let  flame  break 

From  anguished  lips, 
Than  kindle  it  in  any  heart! 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  DISILLUSIONED 

Come  back  to  our  hearts,  fairies,  fairies, 
Wild  little  folk 
Of  youth  and  delight! 

For  time  that  has  driven  you  from  us  carries 
After  you  ever 
Our  aching  sight. 

Come  back  and  dance  in  the  Place  of  our  Dreams, 
Empty  it  lies  of  your  glimmering  feet; 
Come  back,  for  Hope  at  its  portal  tarries, 
Tuning  her  harp  to  their  beat. 
Come  back  and  tell  us  immortally 
The  way  of  the  wind 
And  the  way  of  waters, 
The  way  of  the  gull  on  the  shining  sea, 
And  of  the  sky's  cloud-daughters. 
6s 


66  FAR  QUESTS 

Come  back  and  toil  shall  again  be  sweet  — 

And  faith  shall  follow, 

The  fairer,  after! 

O  toss  to  heaven  enchantedly 

Your  song  and  your  singing  laughter. 

Come  back,  O  come,  and  the  years  shall  flow 

Again  —  and  quicken  our  hearts  to  see 

Beauty  and  love,  as  once,  a-glow 

Under  Spring's  witchery! 


THE  DESERTER  OF  NIRVANA 

I  went  into  Pagoda-land, 

Far  far  it  is  away, 

And  built  me  a  low  hut  along  the  shore. 

The  opiate  sea  came  up  the  sand 

And  murmured  at  my  door 

And  a  wind-bell  tinkled  on  my  shrine  all  day. 

Between  three  palms  I  built  the  hut, 
Three  bent  above  the  shrine: 
Gautama  in  it  sat  imparting  all. 
I  drank  the  milk  of  the  cocoanut 
The  wonted  wind  let  fall, 

And  watched  the  lotos-moon  bloom  o'er  the  brine. 
67 


68  FAR  QUESTS 

And  there  I  lived,  and  looked  to  die  — 

And  there  to  live  again, 

And  write  upon  a  palm-leaf  all  day  long 

The  sutras  that  should  teach  me  why 

Desire  of  life  is  wrong 

Within  a  world  born  of  Illusion's  pain. 

Aye  there  I  lived,  and  looked  to  die  — 

And  there  to  live  again, 

Beside  the  sea,  the  shrine,  the  bending  palms 

That  never  cease  in  me  to  sigh, 

Now,  of  eternal  calms 

That  I  forsook  and  nevermore  shall  gain. 


WHAT  MORE,  0  SEA 

What  more,  O  sea,  what  more  from  your  mad  lips 

Of  mystic  and  immitigable  foam, 
That  hiss  and  writhe  the  hungrier,  tho  brave  ships 

Last  night  were  swallowed  in  eternal  gloam? 
What  more  now  would  you,  Atheist,  whom  the  wind 

Wakens  to  wild  anathemas  that  rise 

To  the  universal  temple  of  the  skies 
And  in  the  very  ears  of  God  are  dinned? 

Have  you  a  blasphemy  more  bitter  still, 

A  curse  to  hurl  yet  o'er  infinity, 
A  scorn  of  men  who  frame  with  feeble  will 

A  phantom  which  they  name  Divinity? 
And  with  it  would  you  shake  apart  the  stars 

That  light  His  presence  with  encircling  flame? 
69 


70  FAR  QUESTS 

O  sea,  would  you  wash  out  His  very  Name 
From  space's  sempiternal  calendars? 

Enough!  your  surging  infidelity 

And  stormy  mockery  reach  but  as  high 
As  do  the  thoughts  of  men  who  strain  to  see 

Into  time's  unimaginable  Why. 
Earth's  but  a  cockle  bearing  you  across 

A  Wider  Sea,  which  is  God  or  is  not. 

Know  then,  your  little  lips  can  ne'er  allot 
Disproof  of  Him,  if  needs  must  come  that  loss. 


ORIENTAL  MEMORIES 
I 

RAIN  IN  ISE 

(Japan) 

The  rain  is  falling  upon  the  fields 

Of  green-tipt  rice  that  grows  in  Ise. 
Under  the  thatch  in  a  cloak  of  straw 

The  clouted  peasant  sits. 
The  sea  is  hidden  by  mist,  that  yields 

And  parts  and  closes  again,  in  fleecy 
Saddening  silence,  like  a  dream 

That  over  sorrow  flits. 

The  rain  is  falling  upon  the  fields 
Of  flooded  rice:  the  rain  is  falling. 
71 


72  FAR  QUESTS 

Crossing  the  dimness  like  a  wraith 

A  lonely  'rickshaw  creeps. 
The  rain  is  falling  and  strangely  wields 

A  power  to  hush  the  sea  that's  calling  — 
Hush  the  sea  and  the  peasant's  heart, 

Till  sorrowless  he  sleeps. 

n 

A  CHINESE  CITY 

(At  Night) 

Thro  the  great  wall,  and  down  into  the  street, 
Where  light  and  darkness  narrowly  contend, 
And  teeming  yellow  faces  start  or  blend 

In  opiate  strangeness,  sinister  or  sweet. 

A  joss-house  suddenly,  and  incense  vain 
Against  the  stench  of  the  strong  god  of  dirt, 
Whose  priest  is  pestilence  that  waits  inert 

Till  for  a  million  victims  death  is  fain. 


FAR  QUESTS  73 

in 

A  BURMESE  IDOL 

The  Shwe  Dagon,  with  all  its  shrines 
Of  twilight-saddened  gold  and  glass. 

Among  the  thousand  idols  one 
I  gaze  upon  but  cannot  pass. 

It  sits  within  a  dark  retreat  — 

Sits  stony  white,  with  painted  brows 

And  eyes  and  smiling  lips  and  hands 
Laid  as  Nirvana's  law  allows. 

And  faded  flowers  by  it  lie, 

Between  the  flickering  candle-flames, 

That,  like  to  moving  lips  without, 
Seem  murmuring  Siddhartha's  names. 

I  gaze  and  lo  a  hemisphere 

Of  space  and  thought  slips  from  me,  till    ... 
The  book  I  dream  o'er  falls;  I  wake  — 

The  West  within  and  round  me  still. 


74  FAR  QUESTS 

IV 
IN  CEYLON 

Tall  palms  against  the  tropic  sky, 
The  Indian  Ocean's  karma-beat; 

A  far  faint  ship  that  passes  by, 

And  Time  sick-hearted  with  the  heat. 

v 

NORTH  INDIA 

An  arid  waste,  rent  by  the  creak 
Of  wells  that  toiling  oxen  drain. 

Where  not  the  gods  themselves  can  wreak 
More  poverty  or  draw  more  pain. 

Where  cities  to  the  jackal  wide, 
And  cities  Caste  is  ruling  still, 

Seem  equally  by  Fate  allied 
To  Superstition's  sterile  will. 


FAR  QUESTS  75 

VI 

THE  KHAMSIN,  AT  CAIRO 

A  tawny  terror  in  the  light 
That  beats  against  each  minaret. 

Sands  that  entombed  Osiris  fight 
With  Allah,  and  shall  vanquish  yet. 

The  Sphinx  awaits  it;  and  the  wind, 

Born  of  the  desert,  sends  a  cry 
Across  her  lips,  lest  she  rescind 

Her  smile  —  that  says  all  gods  shall  die. 

vn 

THE  JORDAN  —  AND  JERICHO 

A  muddy  Serpent  sliding  thro  the  sand 

To  the  Dead  Sea  its  hole; 
A  Dirt-heap  where  the  German's  scholar-hand 

Sifts  from  the  past  some  dole. 


76  FAR  QUESTS 

A  heat-sere  hospice  set  between  them,  bare 

But  for  a  garden-side, 
Where  God  still  walks,  upon  the  scented  air, 

At  eventide. 


A  REQUIEM  FOR  A  MAGDALEN 

(Venice) 

In  a  grave  beneath  the  cypress  tree, 
Brushed  by  the  wing  of  the  sea-gull  lay  her, 
Sin  can  now  no  more  betray  her, 

Death  has  shrived  and  set  her  free. 

In  a  grave  beneath  the  cypress  tree, 
Where  the  lone  tides  can  ever  say  her 
Vespers  low  and  orisons 

Until  Eternity. 


77 


SNOWDONIAN  HILLS 

O  wild  hills  of  Wales, 
Hills  of  whirling  rain, 

Hills  of  flying  mist  and  haunted  moor, 
You  tell  your  tales 
Of  Arthur  and  his  train 
To  every  rivered  coombe  your  crags  immure. 

Grey  Merlin  moods 
And  meanings  o'er  you  sweep, 

Enchantments  of  your  spirit  sad  or  glad. 
And  far-famed  feuds, 
A  thousand  years  asleep, 
Wake  in  the  wind  that  moans  about  you  mad. 
78 


FAR  QUESTS  79 

In  cloud-swept  mail 
Old  Snowdon,  who's  your  king, 

The  lightning,  his  Excalibur,  whirls  white. 
And  that  great  grafl, 
The  sun,  a  mystic  thing, 
Breaks  sudden  forth  —  to  vanish  into  night. 

From  Caerleon's  shrine 
To  Mona  in  the  sea, 

From  the  Great  Orme  to  Milford  of  renown, 
You  lift  your  line: 
No  other  hills  there  be 
To  win  from  you  in  Britain's  list  the  crown. 

But  more,  oh,  more 
Than  old  Romance  you  tell, 

Than  Druid  legend  hushed  in  Knighthood's  lay. 
Your  wild  vales  pour 
From  Nature's  deeper  well 
The  poetry  to  heal  all  hearts  that  pray. 


8o  FAR  QUESTS 

Yea,  health-born  joy 
You  give  to  all  that  come, 

And  chivalry  for  this  —  to  charge  the  host 
Of  ills  that  cloy 
And  bodings  that  benumb 
The  soul  of  man,  earth  cherishes  the  most! 


GULLS  AT  LAND'S  END 

Hungry  gulls,  hungry  gulls,  hunters  of  the  foam, 
Leave  not  the  shore  for  the  ship  that  sets  to  sea! 

Harsh  the  night  is  falling  and  the  hoarse  waves 

roam, 
Rest  you  in  the  cloven  cliff's  lee! 

Hungry  gulls,  hungry  gulls,  toilers  o'er  the  tide, 
Trust  to  the  bay  and  the  beacon's  reach  for  food! 

They  who  seek  the  farthest  are  not  best  supplied, 
For  the  sea  is  strange  —  strange  of  mood. 

Hungry  gulls,  hungry  gulls,  nearer  to  your  nest! 

Be  you  content  with  the  ancient  offing-fare! 
Never  in  the  needless  shall  the  heart  find  rest, 

Greed  has  ever  brought  the  bosom  care. 
81 


TO  SHELLEY 
(In  Italy) 


Shelley,  the  winds  of  your  song  are  blowing 

Over  the  fields  of  my  heart  to-day, 
Where  the  wild  flowers  of  Grief  are  growing 

Up  from  the  deep  World-Soul  astray; 
The  winds  you  gathered  from  earth  to  Uranus, 

From  atom  to  far  Arcturus'  light, 
From  visible  vastitudes  that  pain  us, 

And  vasts  invisible  to  sight. 

n 

The  winds  that  ever,  with  incantation, 

Evoke  you  verily  for  my  eyes, 
82 


FAR  QUESTS  83 

Your  swift  sad  form  of  divine  elation 

Under  lone  Lerici's  blue  skies. 
Your  spirit  that,  like  a  new  Antaeus, 

Touched  earth  for  strength,  but  to  find  it  pain; 
That  like  a  pale  pitying  corypheus 

Saw  tyrant  Fate  tear  Life  in  twain. 

HI 

And  all  the  longings  that  led  Alastor, 

All  the  long  sorrows  that  Laon  bore, 
The  almighty  tortures  that  could  not  master 

Prometheus  whom  Jove's  vulture  tore, 
Around  you  rise  as  a  mist  immortal, 

The  mist  of  a  mind  no  fear  e'er  reined, 
Whose  steed-like  thoughts  to  the  very  portal 

Of  Being's  boundless  abysses  gained. 

IV 

Till,  lo,  the  sea,  that  is  ever  avid, 
That  swept  you  to  death  tempestuous, 


84  FAR  QUESTS 

Seems  now  to  remember,  and  with  gravid 

Billowing  grieve,  as  I  stand  here  thus, 
Feeling  your  song's  wild  spirit  essence 

About  me  still  in  the  earth  and  sky, 
As  a  spaceless  and  elemental  presence 

That,  till  the  world  does,  cannot  die! 


THE  APOSTATE 

Julian   the   Emperor   enthroned 

Apostate  o'er  the  East, 
Swore  every  Christian  of  his  realm 

Should  die  —  man,  child,  or  priest. 

Arming  was  he  for  Parthia: 
Returned,  it  should  be  done. 

Libanus,  his  rhetorician  cried, 

"Where  now's  the  Carpenter's  son?" 

"Making  a  coffin,"  bold  replied 
A  voice  in  the  throng  astir, 

"Making  a  coffin,  for  your  lord 
Of   boasts,    the   Emperor!" 
8s 


86  FAR  QUESTS 

Julian    heard,  and    Julian    went    .    .     . 

And  Julian  came  not  back. 
What   shall   we  say?    Christ  won  the  day? 

Or  —  does  the  moral  lack? 


SPES  MYSTICA 

I  heard  a  voice  from  out  the  Future  crying, 

Afar: 

"  Fear  not,  fear  not,  ye  children  of  the  earth ! 
There  is  in  your  desire  a  dream  undying  — 

The  Star 
It  steals  from  ever  shines:  wage  still  your  war. 

For  Time  shall  clear  at  last  his  whither  and  whence 

And  when ! 

And  all  that  is  dark  shall  vanish  from  your  Dream. 
And  all  that  is  wide  shall  narrow  to  your  ken, 

And  then 

All  that  is  strong,  too  strong  no  more  shall  seem. 
87 


88  FAR  QUESTS 

For  the  great  Mystery  is  only  Mist  — 

Not  Night! 

And  the  great  space,  a  spaceless  Spell  at  last. 
And  the  great  Power  is  but  your  being's  Right 

And  Goal: 
You  shall  attain  triumphant  to  its  Whole. 

Then  will  your  love  be  lit  with  a  new  flame, 

Not  shame. 

Then  will  your  trust  spring  only  up  from  Truth. 
Then  will  your  courage  free  of  Fear  be  born, 

Some  Morn! 
Then  will  age  be  indeed  the  aim  of  youth! 


MOODS  OF  THE  MOOR 


Heather  moor!  heather  moor! 
The  wind  is  full  of  joy  to-day, 
He  shouts  with  all  his  might  to  say 

The  sun  is  sweet  upon  you. 
He  swings  the  clouds,  he  sweeps  the  hills, 
He  shakes  the  wood  with  shadow-thrills, 
He  dances  thro  the  mountain  hay 
Till  routed  scents  o'errun  you! 

n 

Heather  moor!  heather  moor! 
The  wind  has  gone,  the  sun  has  gone, 
The  rain  a  Druid  veil  has  drawn 
Across   the  coombe  and  river. 
89 


go  FAR  QUESTS 

He  calls  the  mists  that  hover  white 
And  in  their  henge  performs  a  rite 
To  heathen  Nature  gazing  on 
The  shapes  she  makes  to  shiver. 

in 

Heather  moor!  heather  moor! 

The  night  has  come,  and  dread  has  come, 
And  Loneliness  stalks  o'er  you,  dumb 

And    blind  —  a    thing    primeval. 
And    Terror's    disembodied    tread 
Comes  trembling  with  it  from  the  dead. 
O  heather  moor,  again  become 
Less  like  a  tomb  of  Evil. 


SEA  LURE 

(The  Maine  Coast) 

It  is  so,  O  sea!  wild  roses 

Bloom  here  in  the  scent  of  thy  brine. 
And  the  juniper  round  them  closes, 

And  the  bays  amid  them  twine, 
To  guard  and  to  praise  their  beauty; 

And  the  gulls  above  them  cry, 
And  the  stern  rocks  stand  on  duty, 

Where  the  surf  beats  white  and  high. 

It  is  so,  O  sea!  wild  roses, 

With  the  day-long  fog  bedrenched, 
Have  come  from  their  inland  closes 

With  a  thirst  for  thee  unquenched. 
91 


9J  FAR  QUESTS 

And  over  thy  cliffs  they  clamber, 

And  over  thy  vast  they  gaze; 
For  the  tides  of  thee  can  enamour 
Even  them  with  their  woodland  ways. 

Yea,  the  passion  of  thee  and  the  power 
And  the  largeness  are  a  lure 

To  even  the  heart  of  a  flower, 
O  sea,  with  a  heart  unsure! 

For  love  is  a  thing  unsated, 
Nor  ever  in  any  breast 

Has  it  dwelt,  all  want  abated, 
At  rest. 


BIDDEFORD  BAY 

(Saco  Bay) 

Biddeford   Bay  is  gold   to-night, 

With  the  sun  going  down. 
The  gulls  have  fled  to  their  island  home, 

Past  Biddeford  Port  and  Town. 
All  day  they  have  clamored  and  swung  and  cried 
Like  restless  spirits  born  of  the  tide, 
That  now  comes  restful  in,  and  wide, 

Over  rocks  so  wont  to  drown. 

Biddeford  Bay  is  gold  to-night, 

With  the  sun  setting  low. 
The  gulls  have  fled  but  the  pines  send  yet 

A  proudly  solemn  crow. 
93 


94  FAR  QUESTS 

A  warden  is  he  who  has  waited  long 
The  last  lone  cry  of  the  sea-born  throng 
Ere  homeward,  too,  over  marshes  strong 
With  the  tide,  he  straggles  slow. 

Biddeford  Bay  is  gold  to-night, 
Till   the  coast-light  flashes  red; 

Then  ashen  and  gray  is  Biddeford  Bay, 
For  the  sun's  last  dream  is  dead. 

Yet  star  over  star  in  the  evening  sky 

Comes  telling  that  day  but  not  love  may  die. 

Nor  beauty  nor  hope  that  the  soul  may  fly 
To  its  rest  when  life  is  sped. 


THE  FISHING  OF  O-SUSHI 

O-Sushi~San  in  the  moonlight  fishes, 

On   the   Inland   Sea. 

He  poles  his  boat  where  the  soft  weed  swishe? 
Under  its  bow  and  the  ebb-tide  wishes, 
Wishes  with  low  lone  lips  again 

In  the  Great  Deep  to  be. 

He  poles  his  boat  and  desire  comes  to  him 

Like  the  tide  to  go. 

The  moonlight  wistfully  sad  steals  thro  him, 
Waking  ancestral  years  that  woo  him, 
Woo  him  back  to  the  Timeless  Deep 
From  whence  he  sprung  to  woe. 
95 


96  FAR  QUESTS 

But  on  he  fishes  —  the  moon  e'er  waning  — 

Past   the  templed  gate 
Of  his  near  isle,  whose  shadow  staining 
All  the  still  sea  around  seems  straining, 
Straining  as  is  his  soul  to  slip 
From  its  unceasing  fate. 

And  tide  and  shadow  and  soul  together 

Seem  at  last  to  blend 
Within  his  trance,  till  he  knows  not  whether 
Time  has  not  slipped  at  last  its  tether, 
Tether   of   loneliness   and   pain  — 

And  lives  without  an  end. 


A  WOMAN'S  REPLY 

If  he  dies  whom  I  love,  let  me  be  — 

Tell  me  not  to  believe. 
If  he  leaves  me,  I  only  shall  see 

I  am  human,  and  grieve. 

In  the  grave  do  not  bid  me  behold 

But  a   God-open  door; 
For  to  Love  it  is  earth,  it  is  mould  — 

Is  the  grave  and  no  more! 

Let  me  be  for  a  little  and  then 
It  may  chance  that  the  sod 

Shall  become  to  my  vision  again 
As  the  garment  of  God. 
97 


WATERS  WITHHELD 

I  hear  it  again  — 

The  falling  leaf; 
The  wind  that  has  ailed 

Overlong  with  grief; 
The  river  run  dry, 

Like  a  heart  I  know; 
But  I  do  not  sigh, 

I  arise  —  and  go  — 

And  to  death  I  say, 

And  Decay,  "Not  yet!" 
To  the  Wind,  "I  sway, 

But  my  soul  is  set." 
To  the  Waters,  "Cease., 

But  unstarven  still 
I  will  wait,  in  peace, 

Till  your  floods  refill." 
98 


FOG 

Wan  ship-deceiving  ghost  of  the  gray  sea, 
Huge  wraith,  walking  the  waters  without  sound, 
And  casting  e'er  thy  peril  shroud  around 

Our  barque,  as  if  to  bring  her  destiny. 

Shade,  whom  the  mariner  dreads  more  to  meet 
Than  tempest  razing  sun  and  moon  and  star, 
Than  winds  that  sweep  away  rudder  and  spar, 
And  leave  him  to  the  wave's  relentless  war: 

Shade,  phantom,  ghost,  be  laid  ever  to  sleep 

Within  the  grave  of  the  engulphing  Deep! 

For  we  who  sail  the  sea  can  face  its  foam, 
O  spectre  of  impalpable  intent, 
But  not  a  shrouded  way  should  we  be  sent 

With  thee  to  haunt  us  when  afar  from  home. 
99 


ioo  FAR  QUESTS 

Pain,  struggle  and  desire  and  loneliness, 
Days  in  the  wind  and  calm,  we  can  endure, 
But  we  would  be  at  least  a  little  sure 
We  are  not  lunging  toward  an  unseen  Lure. 
So,   wraith  —  of  Ignorance   the  avatar  — 
Be  laid,  then  we  indeed  shall  venture  far. 


THE  LOST  BEDOUIN 

Slowly  across  the  sea  of  the  desert 

Does  he  strain, 
To  reach  the  palmy  oasis  waving 

Thro  his  pain. 
Is  it  again  mirage  that  lures  him? 

Will  it  fade? 
And  leave  once  more  but  the  sand,  and  craving 

For  the  green  shade? 

"  Allah-hu-akbar! "  —  God    is    greatest  — 

Seems  to  blow 
To  him  from  minarets  that  tremble: 

Will  they  go? 
"Allah-hu-akbar!"   does  he  answer, 

Falling  prone, 
By  palms  that  in  truth  at  last  resemble 

Heaven's  own. 

101 


THE  SONG  OF  A  NEOPHYTE 

(Alexandria,  A.  D.  500) 

The  body  of  Christ,  where  is  it  now? 

(Winds  of  the  world,  tell  me!) 
They  took  it  down  from  the  black  Hill's  brow, 
Gave  it  a  tomb,  as  all  allow, 
It  rose,  as  the  twelve,  and  more,  avow. 

(Kyrie  eleison!) 

For  forty  days,  and  then  to  the  skies  — 
(Winds    of   the   world,    hear   ye?) 

'Tis  said  that  it  swept,  before  men's  eyes, 

Up   to   a  bliss   called   Paradise. 

But  of  the  gods  there  are  many  lies. 
(Kyrie  eleison!) 


FAR  QUESTS  103 

Up  to  the  stars  they  saw  it  wend. 

(Winds  of  the  world,   did  they?) 
Never,  I  fear,  but  without  end 
Tis  blown  with  all  other  dust  to  blend. 
Let  me  not  tread  on  it,  his  friend! 

(Kyrie  eleison!) 


SAPPHO'S  DEATH  SONG 

(On  her  cliff  in  Leucady) 

What  have  I  gathered  the  years  did  not   take 

from  me? 

(Swallows,  hear,  as  you  fly  from  the  cold!) 
Whom  have  I  bound  to  me  never  to  break  from 

me? 

(Whom,  O  wind  of  the  wold!) 
Whom,  O  wind!  O  hunter  of  spirits! 

(Pierce  his  spirit  whose  spear  is  in  mine!) 
Then  let  Oblivion  loose  this  ache  from  me, 
Proserpine ! 

Lyre  and  the  laurel  the  Muses  gave  to  me, 
(Why  comes  summer  when  winter  is  nigh!) 
104 


FAR  QUESTS  105 

Spent  am  I  now  and  pain-voices  rave  to  me. 

(O  the  sea  and  its  cry!) 
O  the  sea  that  has  suffered  all  sorrow! 

(Sea  of  the  Delphian  tongue  ever  shrill!) 
Nought  from  the  wreck  of  love  can  now  save  to  me 
Any  thrill! 

Life  that  we  live  passes  pale  or  amorous. 

(Tread,  O  vintagers,  grapes  in  the  press  i) 
Mine's  but  a  prey  to  Erinnyes  clamorous. 

(0  for  wane  that  will  bless!) 
Wine  that  foams,  but  is  free  of  all  madness 

(Free,  O  Cypris,  of  fury's  breath!) 
Free  as  I  now  shall  be,  O  glamorous 
Queen  of  Death  1 


THE  MASTER 

The  hounds  of  the  sea  are  baying 

On  the  trail,  o'er  the  new  moon's  tide. 
Their  lips  are  afoam  and  swaying, 

And  the  winds  behind  them  ride. 
The  quarry  is  up  before  them, 

A  ship  with  her  brood  of  men, 
And  a  frenzy  rushes  o'er  them, 

They  bite  her  again  and  again. 

The  winter  has  left  them  riven, 
And  the  winds  have  sped  them  hard, 

But  away  from  her  bows  they  are  driven, 
She    scatters    them    undebarred. 

For  her  beams  are  not  wrought  of  cedar 
That  crushed  in  their  teeth  of    yore, 
1 06 


FAR  QUESTS  107 

But  of  steel;  and  strong  fires  feed  her 
And  drive  her  in  to  the  shore. 

Yea,  man  is  becoming  master 

O  sea;  and  in  vain  thy  pack 
Shall  hunt  one  day  for  disaster 

And  ruin,   upon  his  track: 
The  master  of  thee  and  thy  hunters  — 

For  the  sky  too  does  he  dare  — 
Supreme  o'er  all  he  encounters 

In  the  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air. 


CIVIL  WAR 

I  loaded  my  weapon, 

Aimed  it  well; 
I  shot  and  a  foe 

Before  me  fell. 

I  passed  the  place 

When  the  fight  was  done, 
And  there  lay  dead  — 

My  mother's  son! 

I    buried    him    deep, 

But  deeper  far 
Was  buried  in  me 

Belief  in  war. 
1 08 


FAR  QUESTS  109 

Yet,    such    is    blood! 

I  still  fought  fast, 
Till  victory  came 

To  my  cause  at  last. 

But  now  that  honours 

Upon  me  throng, 
I  know  he  was  right  — 

And  I  was  wrong! 


MESSAGES 

We  have  sped  them  over  the  land, 

Illimitably  along. 
We  have  breathed  them  under  the  sea, 

By  our  cables  dark  and  strong. 
We  have  hurled  them  into  the  air, 

From  shore  unto  farthest  shore, 
And  soon  we  shall  find,  from  mind  to  mind, 

A  way  to  wing  them  o'er! 

We  have  loosed  them  out  of  the  plains, 

To  tell  of  the  cyclone's  path; 
We  have  spurred  them  carrying  peace 

Thro  the  tempest's  warring  wrath. 
From  ship  unto  sinking  ship 

They  have  fled,  and  succor  has  come; 
no 


FAR  QUESTS  n 

So  hail  to  the  goal  when  heart  and  soul 
No  more  are  distance-dumb! 

For  then  shall  a  thousand  miles 

Indeed  be  shorn  of  its  strength, 
And   God  not  seem   denied 

By  the  breadth  of  space  and  the  length. 
For  if  our  spirits  may  fling 

Their  power  and  thought  afar, 
His   Soul,   it  must  be,   may   spring,   space-free, 

From  star  unto  utmost  star. 


WHAT  PART 

In  the  great  drama  of  the  universe 
What  part  plays  this  our  world?  — 

Of  dark  impassioned  Guilt,  to  Love  a  curse? 
Of  broken-hearted  Fool,  beliefless  whirled? 

Is  it  some  Hamlet  melancholy  cast 
Between  the  planet  powers  of  right  and  wrong? 

Some  proud  pale  Prospero  who  shall  at  last 
Regain  his  empire  with  an  Ariel's  song? 

Or  is  it  but  a  humble  Vassal  borne 

Upon  the  infinite  Stage 
To  battle  all  unhonoured  when  the  horn 

Sounds  the  last  tourney  Life  and  Death  shall 
wage? 

112 


THE  UNKNOWN  SHORE 

Storm  on  an  unknown  shore, 
A  light  that  warns  in  vain. 

Nearer  we  drive  and  nearer  roar 
The  reefs:  what  port's  to  gain? 

Dire  is  the  dark,  then,  lo, 
Swept  on  across  the  foam 

We  lift  our  eyes  at  dawn,  to  know 
The  port  we've  made  —  is  home. 


MAN 

I  woke  in  the  night,  silent,  troubled, 
Pained  with  a  sense  of  near  appal. 

A  shot  rang  out  in  the  darkness  —  doubled: 
Swift  steps  ceased  in  a  groan,  a  fall. 

Voices,  then,  of  the  Law  that  serves  us. 

(O  what  man  must  do  to  man!) 
Night  again,  and  the  Power  that  swerves  us 

On  thro  Space:  O  by  what  plan! 


114 


HAUNTED  SEAS 

A  gleaming  glassy  ocean, 

Under   a   sky   of   gray; 
A  tide  that  dreams  of  motion, 

Or  moves,  as  the  dead  may; 
A  bird  that  dips  and  wavers 

O'er  the  lone  waters  round, 
Then  with  a  cry  that  quavers 

Is    gone  —  a    spectral    sound. 

The  brown  sad  sea-weed  drifting 

Far  from  the  land,  and  lost. 
The  faint  warm  fog  unlifting, 

The    derelict    long-tossed, 
But    now    at   rest  —  tho    haunted 

By  the   death-scenting   shark, 
Whose   prey   no   more   undaunted 

Slips    from    it,    spent    and    stark. 


CONVICTS 

(In  a  mine  disaster) 

Down  a  black  hole  in  the  earth  they  toil 

Men  like  you  and  me; 
Prisoners  sullen  and  fierce  with   soil — 

Serfs,    to    keep    us    free. 
Down  a  black  hole  they  dig:  for  what? 
Sun  stored  there  in  an  aeon  forgot. 
Sudden  a  flash  — and  they  are  not. 

Now  what  grief  shall  be? 

Out  they  are  drawn  to  the  living  light  — 

Grimy,  cold  and  dead. 
Out  of  their  hell  to  the  heaven's  white, 

Head  by  numbered  head. 
116 


FAR  QUESTS  117 

Fathers  of  them,  and  friends,  and  wives! 
Mothers  that  bore  them  —  a  hundred  lives!  — 
Hither  and  weep  —  for  the  time  arrives!     .    .    . 
Not  a  tear  is  shed! 

Never  a  tear,  they  are  convicts,  these, 

Strangled    in    their    stripes. 
Never  a  tear  for  their  destinies 

From  an  eye  love  wipes. 
Never  a  sob  —  do  you  hear,  O  God?  — 
As  they  are  tumbled  under  the  sod! 
Prisoners  are  they  now  of  the  clod  — 

That   forever   gripes! 


WHO  RESTS  NOT 

Peace,  hot  heart, 

Lie  in  your  nest! 

Life's  wing  breaks  if  it  fails  of  rest. 

Work  is  good, 

And   achievement   better  — 

But  they  too  may  the  soul  enfetter. 

And  free,  free  it  should  ever  be, 

Free  tho  its  aim  be  skies  immortal. 

Peace   then,   heart, 

And  be  done  with  doing: 

Who  rests  not  but  arrives  at  rueing. 


118 


THE  UNHONOURED 

(In  Westminster  Abbey} 

Mothering  fane  of  the  great  English  dead 
Who  lie  immortal  in  thy  transept  tomb, 
Where  falls  upon  their  fame  the  gloried  gloom 

Of  windows  that  rain  radiance  overhead, 

I  would  there  were  no  missing  presences 

To  grieve  me  in  thy  mighty  organ's  peal  — 
No  poets  exiled  by  the  tyrant  heel 

Of   cursed   Custom's  blind   obduracies. 

For  all  too  great  for  littleness  thou  art, 

And  they  who   shut  from  thee  a  rightful   sor? 

Shut  also  out  a  portion  of  God's  heart, 
A  portion  of  that  Spirit  which  is  one 

With  aspiration,   and  the  world's  intent 

To  prize  all  beauty  as  divinely  sent. 
119 


AT  LINCOLN,  ENGLAND 

The  swallow  and  the  rook  swing 
About  the  old  cathedral  tower: 
Softly  falls  the  twilight, 
Softly  float  the  clouds. 
The  chimes  above  the  roof  peal 
The  travail  of  the  passing  hour, 
Peal,  and  then  are  hushed  in  silence-shrouds. 

The  glimmerings  of  pane-lights 
Are  coming  fast  about  the  close, 

Fast  about  the  cloister, 

Fast  about  the  nave. 
The  hearth-lights,  the  home-lights, 
That  tell  of  ancient  joys  and  woes 
Linked  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 


FAR  QUESTS  I2I 

The  swallow  and  the  rook  cease, 
And  swift  into  the  tower  throng. 
Starrily  the  skies  stray, 
Starry  overhead. 

A  hush  upon  their   peace  hangs, 
A  memory  of  even-song, 
Sung  above  the  long-enhallowed  dead. 


THE  SONG  OF  A  DRUNKEN  PIRATE 

Dead  men's  voices  sound  in  the  sea, 
Dead  ships  shudder  down  in  the  deeps, 

Dead  souls  back  from   eternity 

Seek  dead  bodies  the  ooze  o'ercreeps. 

Mate  and  skipper  and  bo'sun  there, 
Bones  are,  all,  in  the  shifting  sands, 

But  they  rise  at  the  sound  and  stare 
Thro  dead  sockets,  in  stutt'ring  bands. 

Dead  men,  get  ye  away,  away! 

Pass  Hell's  bottle,  my  mates;  a  dram! 
Set  all  sail  till  the  Judgment  Day, 

Then  go  down  with  a  damn!     Hoh! 

Down,  to  Doom,  with  a  damn! 

122 


BUOYS 

A  buoy  on  the  billows 
A  clipping  gull, 
A  wind  that  is  glad, 
A  sail  that  is  taut. 
A  sky  that  is  blue 
And  a  sea  blue-clad  — 
With  a  tide  song-fraught! 

A  tide  that  shall  bring  me 
Upon  its  flow 
The  breath  of  all  life, 
Its  sweetest  boon  — 
The  power  to  hear 
Above  world-deep  strife 
God's  growing  Tune. 
123 


TO  A  BOASTING  BLUET 

What,  little  bluet,  you  are  the  Spring? 
You  know  more  of  her  mood  than  I, 
Who  have  Autumn  and  Winter  too 
Shut  in  my  heart,  not  April  dew? 
What,  little  wilding  dancing  elf! 

Mock  me,  will  you?  as  here  I  try 
In  vain  to  fathom  how  she  will  bring 
One  leaf  to  bud  and  to  blossoming? 

What,  little  Merlin,  born  of  the  dew! 

She  has  told  you  the  happy  whole? 

But  to  me  not  a  wizard  word  — 

More  in  truth  to  the  merest  bird? 

What,  little  mage  in  a  wide  green  world, 

Mite  of  an  hour,  without  a  soul! 
You  know  all  of  her  dreams?    O  true! 
And  I  do  not  even  the  least  know  you! 
124 


VOICES  AT  THE  VEIL 

I  rent  the  veil  that  hangs  between 

The  living  and  the  dead, 
And  cried  aloud,  "Why  have  ye  left 

Us  here  uncomforted! 

"Why  do  ye  never  speak  nor  come 

Again  to  ease  our  hearts? 
It  were  a  little  thing  for  love 

To  do,  when  it  departs!" 

Then  thro  the  veil  a  voice  blew  back, 

"Come?  we  forever  come! 
Scarce  have  we  crossed  the  Silence  ere 

We  hear  again  time's  hum 
125 


126  FAR  QUESTS 

"And  turn  again  to  enter  it; 

But  ye  are  blind  nor  see 
That  children  come  from  where  we  are: 
Lo,  I  your  child  shall  be." 

The  veil  fell  back.     And  then  the  child 
Came  and  I  searched  its  face, 

To  find  —  the  Mystery  again; 
Of  Death  no  other  trace. 


TO  SEA! 

Give  me  the  tiller!  up  with  the  sail! 

Now  let  her  swing  to  the  breeze. 
Out  to  sea  with  a  dripping  rail, 

To  sea,  with  a  heart  at  ease! 

Out  of  the  Harbour!  out  of  the  Bay! 

Out   by    the   valiant   Light, 
Out  by  rocks  where  the  wild  gulls  lay  - 

And  wild  winds  teach  them  flight! 

Out  of  the  Harbour!  out  of  the  Bay! 

Out  to  the  open  sea! 
O  there's  not  in  the  world  a  way 

To  feel  so  wildly  free! 
127 


128  FAR  QUESTS 

For  the  blue  heaven  boundless  bends, 

And  the  blue  sea  's  as  wide, 
And  my  heart  with  their  limit  blends, 
No  longing  left  outside. 

So,  let  her  quiver!  So,  let  her  leap! 

So,  let  her  dance  the  foam! 
All  life  else  is  a  narrow  keep, 

The  sea  alone  is  home! 


ON  IROQUOIS  HILL 

(ToA.H.R.) 

The  rustling  dreams 
Of  the  leaves  in  sleep 

As  the  wakeful  wind  goes  by 
Are  like  the  thoughts 
That  stir  in  me 

As  you  sit  by  me  and  sigh. 
With  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  your  heart  in  mine, 

And  the  summer  moon  in  heaven, 
And  the  whip-poor-will 
Who  is  fain  to  fill 
The  wood  with  lyric  leaven. 
129 


4.-30  FAR  QUESTS 

With  your  hand  in  mine! 
And  your  heart  in  mine! 

And  the  homeless  sea  of  Night, 
In  which  we  two 
Feel  time  pass  thro 

With  universal  flight. 
And  follow  him 
To  the  hither  rim 

Of  uncreated  space; 
Where  the  wind  is  still, 
As  is  God's  will, 
In  which  our  love  finds  place. 


SUFFICINGS 

(To  A.  H.  R.) 

Day  for  the  mind, 
But  night  for  the  soul. 
Sun  for  delight, 
But  moon  to  console. 
Song  for  the  glad, 
But  silence  for  rest. 
God  for  the  world  — 
But  you  for  my  breast  1 


RECOMPENSE 

(ToA.H.R.) 

Not  if  I  chose  from  a  world  of  days 

Could  I  find  a  day  like  this. 
The  sky  is  a  wreath  of  azure  haze 

And  the  sea  an  azure  bliss. 
The  surf  runs  racing  the  young  salt  wind, 

Shouting  without  a  fear 
O'er  reef  and  bar,  o'er  cliff  and  scaur, 

Where  you  and  I  lie  near. 

O  you  and  I  who  have  watched  the  sky 
And  sea  from  many  a  shore! 

You,  love,  and  I  who  will  live  and  die  — 
And  watch  the  sea  no  more! 
132 


FAR  QUESTS  133 

O  joy  of  the  world!    Joy  of  love, 

Joy  that  can  say  to  death, 
"  Tho  you  end  all  with  your  wanton  pall, 

We  two  have  had  this  breath  1 " 


VANISHINGS 

What  went  from  me, 
As  the  bird  I  watched 

Vanisht  in  yonder  cloud? 
Its  flight  was  fair  and  swift  and  free, 

On  the  wind  that  blew  aloud. 

What  went  from  me? 
For  my  heart  hangs  now 

Heavier  than  the  sky. 
In  it  gray  clouds,  as  of  destiny, 

Seem  driving  by  and  by. 

What  went  from  me? 
O  life!  O  time! 

O  vanishings!  O  pain! 
O  death!  O  breath  of  eternity, 

That  cannot  bring  them  again! 
134 


GALILEO 

• 
(Dying,  to  his  friends  —  after  many  penalties  under 

the  Inquisition  for  his  astronomical  beliefs') 
So  be  it    .    .    the  priest    .     .    let  him  come, 
Since  you  fear    .     .    with  the  Eucharist! 
I  recant  again:  I  will  eat 
Of  the  Bread  and  drink  of  the  Wine. 
But  then  give  me  peace  thro  the  some 
Few  hours  that  are  left,  for  the  Mist 
Draws  near  me,  and  I  would  complete 
One  thought  more.    Do  the  stars  shine? 

A  heretic?  no,  let  the  Church 
Have  her  will    ...    But  Copernicus 
Saw  a  great  truth  for  all  that    .     .     . 
And  yet  I  am  troubled  still! 
135 


I36  FAR  QUESTS 

The  sun  —  he  found,  in  his  search  — 
Is  the  centre  of  all  —  aye  thus 
Did  he  say,  tho  he  paused  thereat: 
There's  more  to  be  said  by  who  will! 

There's  more  to  be  said  by  who  dares 
But  nay,  do  not  fear,  I  am  old 
And  blind  —  so  others  must  speak, 
And  will  —  o'er  the  Church's  ban. 
The  heavens  I  found  are  theirs; 
The  earth  and  the  planets  have  told 
But  a  word:  there  will  come  who  seek 
How  the  heavens  themselves  began! 

A  blasphemy,  that?    Not  so, 
For  motion  and  force  are  God's, 
And  in  them  is  hidden  the  thought 
That  eludes  me,  even  to  death. 
How  earth  draws  the  moon  I  know, 
And  how  great  Jupiter  plods, 


FAR  QUESTS  137 

With  his  satellites  to  him  caught  — 
As  if  by  an  indrawn  breath! 

That  indrawn  breath,  is  it  one 

Between  all  things  cast  upon  space? 

The  stone  that  I  fling  and  the  star 

Fall  yielding  alike  to  its  will? 

Does  the  Universe  so  run? 

God  give  me  a  year  of  grace 

And  yet  I  shall  pierce  afar 

Into  that    ...    for  it  needs  but  skill. 

The  holy  Wine  and  the  Bread? 

They  are  come?    .     .    .    yea,  I  believe  — 

In  Christ  and  the  Virgin  too, 

So  now    ...    be  ever  at  ease. 

In  the  Church  at  Pisa  o'erhead 

Swung   the  pendulous  light    .    .    .    receive 

My  discoveries,  God,  thou  who 

Gave  the  first  to  me  there  on  my  knees! 


138  FAR  QUESTS 

For  if  Thou  hast  sent  thy  Word 
To  the  Church  Thou  hast  sent  us  too 
The  heavens  and  all  their  scroll 
For  men  with  their  minds  to  read. 
So  where  the  truth  I  averred 
Of  the  stars  to  thy  Word's  untrue. 
Lay  it  not,  O  God,  to  my  soul 
That  I  trusted  both  in  my  need! 


AT  THE  END 

When  it  is  done, 

The  laughter  and  weeping, 

When  the  heart  hushes, 

When  the  brain  stills; 
When  I  lie  down 
For  Silence  and  Sleeping, 

0  let  it  be,  at  last,  on  the  hills! 

On  the  high  hills 
Where  gladly  to  wander 

Is  my  delight, 

As  the  wind  knows; 
Where  without  tomb 
For  any  to  ponder 

1  may,  still  facing  the  stars,  repose. 

THE   END 


THE  IMMORTAL  LURE 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

It  is  great  art  —  with  great  vitality. 

James  Lane  Allen. 

In  the  midst  of  the  Spring  rush  there  arrives  one 
book  for  which  all  else  is  pushed  aside  .  .  .  We 
have  been  educated  to  the  belief  that  a  man  must  be 
long  dead  before  he  can  be  enrolled  with  the  great 
ones.  Let  us  forget  this  cruel  teaching  .  .  .  This 
volume  contains  four  poetic  dramas  all  different  in 
setting,  and  all  so  beautiful  that  we  cannot  choose 
one  more  perfect  than  another.  .  .  .  Too  extra 
vagant  praise  cannot  be  given  Mr.  Rice. 

The  San  Francisco  Call. 

Four  brief  dramas,  different  from  Paola  &  Francesca, 
but  excelling  it — or  any  other  of  Mr.  Phillips's  work,  it 
is  safe  to  say  —  in  a  vivid  presentment  of  a  supreme 
moment  in  the  lives  of  the  characters  .  .  .  They 
form  excellent  examples  of  the  range  of  Mr.  Rice's 
genius  in  this  field.  The  New  York  Times  Review- 

Mr.  Rice  is  quite  the  most  ambitious,  and  most 
distinguished  of  contemporary  poetic  dramatists  in 
America.  The  Boston  Transcript  (W.  S.  Braithwaite.) 

The  vigor  and  originality  of  Mr.  Rice's  work  never 
outweigh  that  first  qualification,  beauty  ...  No 
American  writer  has  so  enriched  the  body  of  our  poetic 
literature  in  the  past  few  years.  , 

The  New  Orleans  Picayune. 

Mr.  Rice  is  beyond  doubt  the  most  distinguished 
poetic  dramatist  America  has  yet  produced. 

The  Detroit  Free  Press. 

That  in  Cale  Young  Rice  a  new  American  poet 
of  great  power  and  originality  has  arisen  cannot  be 
denied.  He  has  somehow  discovered  the  secret 
of  the  mystery,  wonder  and  spirituality  of  human 


existence,  which  has  been  all  but  lost  in  our  commer 
cial  civilization.  May  he  succeed  in  awakening  our 
people  from  sordid  dreams  of  gain. 

Rochester  (N.  Y.  )  Post  Express. 

No  writer  in  England  or  America  holds  himself  to 
higher  ideals  (than  Mr.  Rice)  and  everything  he  does 
bears  the  imprint  of  exquisite  taste  and  the  finest 
poetic  instinct.  The  Portland  Oregonian. 

In  simplicity  of  art  form  and  sheer  mystery  of 
romanticism  these  poetic  dramas  embody  the  new 
century  artistry  that  is  remaking  current  imaginative 
literature.  The  Philadelphia  North  American. 

Cale  Young  Rice  is  justly  regarded  as  the  leading 
master  of  the  difficult  form  of  poetic  drama. 

Portland  (Me.}  Press. 

Mr.  Rice  has  outlived  the  prophesy  that  he  would 
one  day  rival  Stephen  Phillips  in  the  poetic  drama. 
As  dexterous  in  the  mechanism  of  his  art,  the  young 
American  is  the  Englishman's  superior  in  that  unforced 
quality  which  bespeaks  true  inspiration,  and  in  a  wider 
variety  of  manner  and  theme. 

San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

Mr.  Rice's  work  has  often  been  compared  to  Stephen 
Phillips's  and  there  is  great  resemblance  in  their  ex 
pression  of  high  vision.  Mr.  Rice's  technique  is  sure 
.  .  .  his  knowledge  of  his  settings  impeccable,  and 
one  feels  sincerely  the  passion,  power  and  sensuous 
beauty  of  the  whole.  "Arduin"(one  of  the  plays) 
is  perfect  tragedy;  as  rounded  as  a  sphere,  as  terrible 
as  death.  Review  of  Reviews. 

The  Immortal  Lure  is  a  very  beautiful  work. 

The  Springfield  (Mass.)  Republican. 

The  action  in  Mr.  Rice's  dramas  is  invariably 
compact  and  powerful,  his  writing  remarkable  forcible 
and  clear,  with  a  rare  grasp  of  form.  The  plays  are 
brief  and  classic.  Baltimore  News. 


These  four  dramas,  each  a  separate  unit  perfect 
in  itself  and  differing  widely  in  treatment,  are  yet 
vitally  related  by  reason  of  the  one  central  theme, 
wrought  out  with  rich  imagery  and  with  compelling 
dramatic  power.  The  Louisville  Times  (U.  S.) 

The  literary  and  poetical  merit  of  these  dramas  is 
undeniable,  and  they  are  charged  with  the  emotional 
life  and  human  interest  that  should,  but  do  not,  al 
ways  go  along  with  those  other  high  gifts. 

The  (London)  Bookman. 


CousTWtire 

IK  AMERICA 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CO..  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


MANY  GODS 

By 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

THESE  poems  are  flashingly,  glowingly 
full  of    the    East.     .     .     .     What  I 
am  sure  of  in  Mr.  Rice  is  that  here 
we  have  an  American  poet  whom  we  may 
claim  as  ours."     The  North  American  Review 
(William  Dean  Howells). 

"Mr.  Rice  has  the  gift  of  leadership.     . 
and  he  is  a  force  with  whom  we  must  reckon." 
The  Boston  Transcript. 

.  .  .  "We  find  here  a  poet  who  strives 
to  reach  the  goal  which  marks  the  best  that 
can  be  done  in  poetry."  The  Book  News 
Monthly  (A.  S.  Henry). 

"When  ycu  hear  the  pessimists  bewailing 
the  good  old  time  when  real  poets  were  abroad 
in  the  land  ...  do  not  fail  to  quote 
them  almost  anything  by  Cale  Young  Rice, 
a  real  poet  writing  to-day.  ...  He  has 
done  so  much  splendid  work  one  can  scarcely 
praise  him  too  highly."  The  San  Francisco 
Call. 

"'In  Many  Gods'  the  scenes  are  those  of 
the  East,  and  while  it  is  not  the  East  of 
Loti,  Arnold  or  Hearn,  it  is  still  a  place  of 


brooding,  majesty,  mystery  and  subtle  fasci 
nation.  There  is  a  temptation  to  quote 
such  verses  for  their  melody,  dignity  of  form, 
beauty  of  imagery  and  height  of  inspiration." 
I  he  Chicago  Journal. 

"' Love's  Cynic'  (a  long  poem  in  the  vol 
ume)  might  be  by  Browning  at  his  best." 
Pittsburg  Gazette-Times. 

"This  is  a  serious,  and  from  any  standpoint, 
a  successful  piece  of  work  ...  in  it 
are  poems  that  will  become  classic."  Passaic 
(New  Jersey)  News. 

"Mr.  Rice  must  be  hailed  as  one  among 
living  masters  of  his  art,  one  to  whom  we  may 
look  for  yet  greater  things."  Presbyterian 
Advance. 

"This  book  is  in  many  respects  a  remark 
able  work.  The  poems  are  indeed  poems." 
The  Nashville  Banner. 

"Mr.  Rice's  poetical  plays  reach  a  high 
level  of  achievement.  .  .  .  But  these 
poems  show  a  higher  vision  and  surer  mastery 
of  expression  than  ever  before."  The  London 
Bookman. 

Net,  $1.25  (postage  isc.) 


NIRVANA  DAYS 

Poems  by 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

MR.   RICE  has  the  technical  cunning 
that   makes   up    almost    the  entire 
equipment  of  many  poets  nowadays, 
but  human  nature  is  more  to  him  always 
.     .     .     and  he  has  the  feeling  and  imagina 
tive  sympathy  without  which  all  poetry  is 
but  an  empty  and  vain  thing."     The  London 
Bookman. 

"Mr.  Rice's  note  is  a  clarion  call,  and  of  his 
two  poems,  The  Strong  Man  to  His  Sires'  and 
'The  Young  to  the  Old,'  the  former  will  send 
a  thrill  to  the  heart  of  every  man  who  has  the 
instinct  of  race  in  his  blood,  while  the  latter 
should  be  printed  above  the  desk  of  every 
minor  poet  and  pessimist.  .  .  .  The  son 
nets  of  the  sequence,  'Quest  and  Requital,' 
have  the  elements  of  great  poetry  in  them." 
The  Glasgow  (Scotland)  Herald. 

"Mr.  Rice's  poems  are  singularly  free  from 
affectation,  and  he  seems  to  have  written  be 
cause  of  the  sincere  need  of  expressing  some 
thing  that  had  to  take  art  form."  The  Sun 
(New  York). 

"The  ability  to  write  verse  that  scans  is 
quite  common.  .  .  .  But  the  inspired 
thought  behind  the  lines  is  a  different 


thing;  and  it  is  this  thought  untrammeled 
—  the  clear  vision  searching  into  the  deeps 
of  human  emotion  —  which  gives  the  verse 
of  Mr.  Rice  weight  and  potency.  ...  In 
the  range  of  his  metrical  skill  he  easily  stands 
with  the  best  of  living  craftsmen  .  .  . 
and  we  have  in  him  ...  a  poet  whose 
dramas  and  lyrics  will  endure."  The  Book 
News  Monthly  (A.  S.  Henry). 

"  These  poems  are  marked  by  a  breadth 
of  outlook,  individuality  and  beauty  of 
thought.  The  author  reveals  deep,  sincere 
feeling  on  topics  which  do  not  readily  lend 
themselves  to  artistic  expression  and  which 
he  makes  eminently  worth  while."  The 
Buffalo  (N.  F.)  Courier. 

"We  get  throughout  the  idea  of  a  vast 
universe  and  of  the  soul  merging  itself  in  the 
infinite.  .  .  .  The  great  poem  of  the 
volume,  however,  is  'The  Strong  Man  to  His 
Sires.'"  The  Louisville  Post  (Margaret  S. 
Anderson). 

"The  poems  possess  much  music  .  .  . 
and  even  in  the  height  of  intensified  feeling 
the  clearness  of  Mr.  Rice's  ideas  is  not  dimmed 
by  the  obscure  haze  that  too  often  goes  with 
the  divine  fire."  The  Boston  Globe. 

Paper  boards.    Net,  $1.25  (postage  isc.) 


A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON 

By 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

Successfully  produced  by  Donald  Robertson 


I 


T  IS  as  vivid  as  a  page  from  Browning. 
Mr.  Rice  has  the  dramatic  pulse." 
James  Huneker. 

"It  embraces  in  small  compass  all  the 
essentials  of  the  drama.  New  York  Saturday 
Times  Review  (Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse). 

"It  presents  one  of  the  most  striking 
situations  in  dramatic  literature  and  its 
climax  could  not  be  improved."  The  San 
Francisco  Call. 

"It  has  undeniable  power,  and  is  a  very 
decided  poetic  achievement."  The  Boston 
Transcript. 

"It  leaves  an  enduring  impression  of  a 
soul  tragedy."  The  Churchman. 

"Since  the  publication  of  his  'Charles  di 
Tocca'  and  other  dramas,  Cale  Young  Rice 
has  justly  been  regarded  as  a  leading  Ameri 
can  master  of  that  difficult  form,  and  many 
critics  have  ranked  him  above  Stephen 
Phillips,  at  least  on  the  dramatic  side  of  his 
art.  And  this  judgment  is  further  confirmed 
by  *A  Night  in  Avignon.'  It  is  almost  in 
credible  that  in  less  than  500  lines  Mr.  Rice 
should  have  been  able  to  create  so  perfect  a 


play  with  so  powerful  a  dramatic  effect."  The 
Chicago  Record-Herald  (Edwin  S.  Shuman) 

"  There  is  poetic  richness  in  this  brilliant 
composition;  a  beauty  of  sentiment  and 
grace  in  every  line.  It  is  impressive,  metri 
cally  pleasing  and  dramatically  powerful." 
The  Philadelphia  Record. 

"It  offers  one  of  the  most  striking  situa 
tions  in  dramatic  literature."  The  Louisville 
Courier- Journal. 

"The  publication  of  a  poetic  drama  of  the 
quality  of  Mr.  Rice's  is  an  important  event 
in  the  present  tendency  of  American  litera 
ture.  He  is  a  leader  in  this  most  significant 
movement,  and  'A  Night  in  Avignon'  is 
marked,  like  his  other  plays,  by  dramatic 
directness,  high  poetic  fervor,  clarity  of 
poetic  diction,  and  felicity  of  phrasing." 
The  Chicago  Journal. 

"It  is  a  dramatically  told  episode,  and  the 
metre  is  most  effectively  handled,  making 
a  welcome  change  for  blank  verse,  and  greatly 
enhancing  the  interest."  Sydney  Lee. 

"Many  critics,    on    hearing    Mr.    Bryce's 
prediction  that  America  will  one  day  have  a 
poet,  would  be   tempted  to  remind  him  of 
Mr.  Rice."     The  Hartford  (Conn.}  Courant. 
Net  500.  (postage  50.) 


SONG-SURF 

(Being  the  Lyrics  of  Plays  and  Lyrics)  by 

CALE  YOUNG  PRICE 

MR.  RICE'S  work  betrays  wide  sym 
pathies  with  nature  and  life,  and  a 
welcome  originality  of  sentiment  and 
metrical  harmony."    Sydney  Lee. 

"In  his  lyrics  Mr.  Rice's  imagination  works 
most  successfully.  He  is  an  optimist  —  and 
in  these  days  an  optimist  is  irresistible  — 
and  he  can  touch  delicately  things  too  holy 
for  a  rough  or  violent  pathos."  The  London 
Star  (James  Douglas). 

"Mr.  Rice's  highest  gift  is  essentially 
lyrical.  His  lyrics  have  a  charm  and  grace 
of  melody  distinctively  their  own."  The 
London  Bookman. 

"Mr.  Rice  is  keenly  responsive  to  the 
loveliness  of  the  outside  world,  and  he  re 
veals  this  beauty  in  words  that  sing  them 
selves."  The  Boston  Transcript. 

"Mr.  Rice's  work  is  everywhere  marked 
by  true  imaginative  power  and  elevation  of 
feeling."  The  Scotsman. 

"Mr.  Rice's  work  would  seem  to  rank  with 
the  best  of  our  American  poets  of  to-day." 
The  Atlanta  Constitution. 


"Mr.  Rice's  poems  are  touched  with  the 
magic  of  the  muse.  They  have  inspiration, 
grace  and  true  lyric  quality."  The  Book 
News  Monthly. 

"Mr.  Rice's  poetry  as  a  whole  is  both 
strongly  and  delicately  spiritual.  Many  of 
these  lyrics  have  the  true  romantic  mystery 
and  charm.  .  .  .  To  write  thus  is  no 
indifferent  matter.  It  indicates  not  only  long 
work  but  long  brooding  on  the  beauty  and 
mystery  of  life."  The  Louisville  Post. 

"  Mr.  Rice  is  indisputably  one  of  the  greatest 
poets  who  have  lived  in  America.  .  .  . 
And  some  of  these  (earlier)  poems  are  truly 
beautiful.  The  Times-Union  (Albany,  N.  Y.) 


Net,  $1.25  (postage  i2c.) 


CHARLES  DI  TOCCA 

By 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

1TAKE   off   my   hat   to   Mr.    Rice.    His 
play  is  full  of  poetry,  and  the  pitch  and 
dignity  of  the  whole  are  remarkable." 
James  Lane  Allen. 

"It  is  a  dramatic  poem  one  reads  with  a 
heightened  sense  of  its  fine  quality  through 
out.  It  is  sincere,  strong,  finished  and  noble, 
and  sustains  its  distinction  of  manner  to  the 
end.  .  .  .  The  character  of  Helena  is 
not  unworthy  of  any  of  the  great  masters  of 
dramatic  utterance."  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

"The  drama  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  kind 
ever  written  by  an  American  author.  Its 
whole  tone  is  masterful,  and  it  must  be  classed 
as  one  of  the  really  literary  works  of  the 
season."  (1903).  The  Milwaukee  Sentinel. 

"It  shows  a  remarkable  sense  of  dramatic 
construction  as  well  as  poetic  power  and 
strong  characterization."  James  Mac  Arthur, 
in  Harper's  Weekly. 

"This  play  has  many  elements  of  perfection. 
Its  plot  is  developed  with  ease  and  with  a  large 
dramatic  force;  its  characters  are  drawn  with 
sympathy  and  decision;  and  its  thoughts 


rise  to  a  very  real  beauty.  By  reason  of  it 
the  writer  has  gained  an  assured  place  among 
playwrights  who  seek  to  give  literary  as  well 
as  dramatic  worth  to  their  plays."  The 
Richmond  (Va.)  News-Leader. 

"The  action  of  the  play  is  admirably  com 
pact  and  coherent,  and  it  contains  tragic 
situations  which  will  afford  pleasure  not  only 
to  the  student,  but  to  the  technical  reader." 
The  Nation. 

"It  is  the  most  powerful,  vital,  and  truly 
tragical  drama  written  by  an  American  for 
some  years.  There  is  genuine  pathos,  mighty 
yet  never  repellent  passion,  great  sincerity 
and  penetration,  and  great  elevation  and 
beauty  of  language."  The  Chicago  Post. 

"Mr.  Rice  ranks  among  America's  choicest 
poets  on  account  of  his  power  to  turn  music 
into  words,  his  virility,  and  of  the  fact  that  he 
has  something  of  his  own  to  say."  The  Boston 
Globe. 

"The  whole  play  breathes  forth  the  inde 
finable  spirit  of  the  Italian  renaissance.  In 
poetic  style  and  dramatic  treatment  it  is 
a  work  of  art."  The  Baltimore  Sun. 

Paper  boards.     Net,  $1.25  (postage,  yc.) 


DAVID 

A  Poetic  Drama  by 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

I   WAS  greatly  impressed  with  it  and  de 
rived  a  sense  of  personal  encouragement 
from  the  evidence  of  so  fine  and  lofty 
a  product  for  the  stage."    Richard  Mansfield. 

"It  is  a  powerful  piece  of  dramatic  por 
traiture  in  which  Cale  Young  Rice  has  again 
demonstrated  his  insight  and  power.  What 
he  did  before  in  ' Charles  di  Tocca'  he  has 
repeated  and  improved  upon.  .  .  .  Not 
a  few  instances  of  his  strength  might  be 
cited  as  of  almost  Shakespearean  force. 
Indeed  the  strictly  literary  merit  of  the  tragedy 
is  altogether  extraordinary.  It  is  a  con 
tribution  to  the  drama  full  of  charm  and 
power."  The  Chicago  Tribune. 

"From  the  standpoint  of  poetry,  dignity 
of  conception,  spiritual  elevation  and  finish 
and  beauty  of  line,  Mr.  Rice's  'David'  is, 
perhaps,  superior  to  his  'Yolanda  of  Cyprus/ 
but  the  two  can  scarcely  be  compared." 
The  New  York  Times  (Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse). 

"Never  before  has  the  theme  received  treat 
ment  in  a  manner  so  worthy  of  it."  The 
St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat. 


"It  needs  but  a  word,  for  it  has  been  passed 
upon  and  approved  by  critics  all  over  the 
country."  Book  News  Monthly.  And  again: 
"But  few  recent  writers  seem  to  have  found 
the  secret  of  dramatic  blank  verse;  and  of 
that  small  number,  Mr.  Rice  is,  if  not  first, 
at  least  without  superior." 

"With  instinctive  dramatic  and  poetic 
power,  Mr.  Rice  combines  a  knowledge  of 
the  exigencies  of  the  stage."  Harper's 
Weekly. 

"It  is  safe  to  say  that  were  Mr.  Rice  an 
Englishman  or  a  Frenchman,  his  reputation 
as  his  country's  most  distinguished  poetic 
dramatist  would  have  been  assured  by  a 
more  universal  sign  of  recognition.  The 
Baltimore  News  (writing  of  all  Mr.  Rice's 
plays) . 


Net,  $1.25  (postage  120.) 


YOLANDA  OF  CYPRUS 

A  Poetic  Drama  by 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 


i 


T  HAS  real  life  and  drama,  not  merely 
beautiful  words,  and  so  differs  from  the 
great  mass  of  poetic  plays. 

Prof.  Gilbert  Murray. 

Minnie  Maddern  Fisk  says:  "No  one  can 
doubt  that  it  is  superior  poetically  and 
dramatically  to  Stephen  Phillips's  work," 
and  that  Mr.  Rice  ranks  with  Mr.  Phillips 
at  his  best  has  often  been  reaffirmed. 

"It  is  encouraging  to  the  hope  of  a  native 

drama  to  know  that  an  American  has  written 

a  play  which  is  at  the  same  time  of  decided 

poetic  merit  and  of  decided  dramatic  power. " 

The  New  York  Times. 

"The  most  remarkable  quality  of  the  play 
is  its  sustained  dramatic  strength.  Poetically 
it  is  frequently  of  great  beauty.  It  is  also 
lofty  in  conception,  lucid  and  felicitous  in 
style,  and  the  dramatic  pulse  throbs  in  every 
line."  The  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"The  characters  are  drawn  with  force  and 
the  play  is  dignified  and  powerful,"  and  adds 
that  if  it  does  not  succeed  on  the  stage  it 
will  be  "because  of  its  excellence." 

The  Springfield  Republican. 


"Mr.  Rice  is  one  of  the  few  present-day 
poets  who  have  the  steadiness  and  weight,  for 
a  well-sustained  drama.'* 

The  Louisville  Post  (Margaret  Anderson). 

"It  has  equal  command  of  imagination, 
dramatic  utterance,  picturesque  effectiveness 
and  metrical  harmony.  " 

The  London  (England)  Bookman. 

T.  P.'s  Weekly  says:  "It  might  well  stand 
the  difficult  test  of  production  and  will  be 
welcomed  by  all  who  care  for  serious  verse." 

The  Glasgow  (Scotland)  Herald  says:  "Yo- 
landa  of  Cyprus  is  finely  constructed;  the 
irregular  blank  verse  admirably  adapted  for 
the  exigencies  of  intense  emotion;  the  char 
acters  firmly  drawn;  and  the  climax  serves 
the  purpose  of  good  stagecraft  and  poetic 
justice.  " 

"It  is  well  constructed  and  instinct  with 
dramatic  power."  Sydney  Lee. 

"It  is  as  readable  as  a  novel.  " 

The  Pittsburg  Post. 

"Here  and  there  an  almost  Shakespearean 
note   is    struck.     In    makeup,    arrangement, 
and  poetic  intensity  it  ranks  with  Stephen 
Phillips's  work.  "     The  Book  News  Monthly. 
(Net,  $1.25  (postage  ice.) 


Corwrertrre 
iNAMimcA 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  CO.,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


APtt      O/^    ir»ir 

Hr«   #o  1^35 

APR  271935 

JAN  21    1938 

NQV  2O  I94g 

LD  21-1007n-8,'34 

.  I    •    \ 


273455 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


